


'Track as Weeded'

by Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me



Series: Destiel/ Cockles Chapter Series [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Library, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Awkward Romance, Bisexuality, Blow Jobs, Brother Feels, Charlie is awesome, Confessions, Dean is Not Amused, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Gay Sex, Hobbies, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Meet the Family, One sided flirting, POV Dean Winchester, Panic Attacks, Plotting, Straight Panic, This was going to be a oneshot but I've been typing forever and it's still not done, the one where Castiel is both oblivious and a badass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-05-02 15:43:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14548017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me/pseuds/Castiel_Left_His_Mark_On_Me
Summary: You could say that he likes adventure. He enjoys suspense and drama, and that tingling feeling of not knowing what's going to happen next. Yes, Dean Winchesterlivesfor that ... well, as long as it's all set between the pages of a book. When it comes to his actual life however, Dean would prefer the quiet calm of his quaint little library.As a librarian, all he needs are his books— okay, family and friends too, but mostlyhis books.Yet, when his precious bound babies start coming back to him in mutilated pieces, those dramatic stories that he loves reading about, will begin to come to life— and suddenly, heart pounding adventure turns into heart pounding romance.And Dean isn't sure he's ready for any of it.





	1. Book Murderer

**Author's Note:**

> * * *

 

* * *

 

His fingers are black at the tips—covered in papercuts, ink and glue.

Stacks of books tower above his head as he crouches over one of their brothers, and he smiles. _This_ —this is Dean’s happy place.

As much as he hates seeing one of these precious novels get destroyed, nothing beats the satisfaction he feels from fixing them. And he’s seen it all: moldy mountains growing from between the pages, food and gunk sealing both covers closed. Tears, chew marks, volumes that appear to have been read by the Hulk … there’s nothing he can’t handle.

He’s the master … the wizard … the overlord!

 _Well_ … at least when it comes to fixing books.

 _People_ on the other hand … _not so much_. People, they’re not as easy to read, as easy to fix—as easy to pile off to the side when he wants to be left alone, which seems like more and more these days.

Sam says that Dean has become a hermit, hiding between the stacks of his library, never coming up for air.

“You’ll die from some toxic mold one of these days and it’ll be weeks before anyone finds your body” his brother had said during their last phone call.

“Stop being so overdramatic” Dean groaned back, “Charlie would smell me rotting within the first couple of hours.”

Sam laughed. “True. But then she’d probably get distracted by some book she hadn’t read yet and leave you there.”

Dean smiled and then nodded at his phone. “Yeah—probably.”

 

Charlie was one of the few people Dean could actually stand to be around—well _her_ , Sammy, and Uncle Bobby. That was about it; but unlike Sam and his Uncle Bobby, Charlie is a social butterfly. She’s bubbly and loves to chit chat and go out on “quests” as she likes to call them—aka: _normal, everyday outings_ that aren’t at all exciting. She can be loud and crazy, and those characteristics usually drive Dean completely insane, but for some reason, Charlie is the exception.

They met nearly five years ago now, back when Dean was just a clerk in this library. This bouncing red head would always come skipping through the doors, and then leave with twenty books in her arms. And the time in between—she’d spend telling Dean about every single story she had read the week before (usually fantasies—not Dean’s favorite genre, but _whatever_ ) and Dean would just smile and nod and continue straightening the shelves or checking in books, or whatever it was he was doing at the time.

Maybe that’s why her personality never really bothered him. She didn’t expect a response—she didn’t really expect _anything_ from him. She just wanted to share her joy with someone who might actually understand it, and Dean had two ears and a quiet library to do so.

Eventually, she began asking what kind of books _Dean_ liked to read, so she could enjoy those too (plus, she had already burned through the entire fantasy section) so Dean started showing her things from his reading list—which had quite a wide variety. There was a lot of realistic fiction on there, stories that made him think about the people in his own life: his mom, his brother, or someone he forgot he even knew until some beautifully written sentence reminded him of the way they used to smile. He showed Charlie the adventure pieces that made his heart race, and that he’d usually finish in one go, because there was _no way_ he could put it down for anything. He showed her non-fictions on science and war and true tales of regular people performing amazing acts to change the world—and Charlie ate it all up with a spoon.

Over the years—they came to know one another through each of these stories; and before they realized it, they were spending every day together just trading books and discussing the new feelings that they got to experience because of them.

So it was only natural that Dean offered her his old position as clerk once the librarian spot became available, and the girl jumped at the chance.

The rest, as they say, is history.

“Alright, man! I’m heading out … got a _really_ special quest tonight!” Charlie blurts while busting in through the backroom door.

Dean jolts in his seat, nearly knocking over one of the stacks of damaged books that he has yet to fix. “Jeez—yeah, _okay_. Do you have to be so loud about it though?”

Charlie giggles and then loops her arms around his neck, popping her chin over his shoulder so she can see what he’s doing. “Uh— _duh!_ I’m excited! It’s my _third_ date with Dorothy, so you know what _that_ means …”

“Your quest will end in Vagina Town?” Dean grumbles—grimacing immediately after he said it because he’s obviously been hanging around this girl _too much._

“Exactly! I need to go brush my teeth and wash my … well, _ya know._ I need to be fresh down there! Like a daisy!”

Dean’s grimace deepens. “Okay, alright—thanks for that. Can I get back to work now?”

The girl snorts in amusement before giving him a squeeze and then standing upright once more. “Gah, Dean—you’re such a prude. Just because you don’t like vaginas doesn’t mean you’ll die from hearing about them. Besides, _you_ brought it up!”

It’s true, he did stupidly turn the conversation down this road, but that doesn’t mean he can’t turn it right back around again. “Whatever, just go and do what ya need to do, and feel free to _not_ share any of the details with me tomorrow.”

Charlie is already halfway out the door by the time he finishes what he’s saying. And with just a wave of her pale hand through the opening, Dean hears, “Oh, you know I will!” and then she’s gone.

Dean smiles in spite of himself. As much as Charlie can drive him nuts, it’s a drive that he enjoys taking. He chuckles as he goes over the last couple minutes in his head, blindly reaching to the top of the stack to pull down another damaged book to mend.

He starts to open it.

But the covers won’t come apart.

 _Probably syrup_ he starts to think to himself—knowing that quite a few people tend to read in the mornings while eating their waffles or French toast; but as he glances down at the book, really taking it in for the first time since he picked it up, he quickly realizes that the covers aren’t lackered with a healthy coating of maple, nor are they stuck because of some spilt glue or juice.

There, stabbing right through the letter O of this “Build it Yourself: Woodwork Made Easy” How-To book, is a thick, six inch nail.

“ _What the hell?_ ” he chokes, flipping over the book to look at the other side. The back cover has only the tiniest of holes where the silver tip of the nail is just starting to poke through, but all-in-all, the book has been entirely nailed shut. “How … _what_ … I don’t …” he questions aloud, turning the book over and over in his hands, trying gently several more times to pull the covers apart. “Why?” he finally exclaims to the dust, now noticing some large staples as well, like from a staple gun—imbedded in the back cover near the spine.

What appears to be wood stain is also dripped all over the top pages, and the entire gutter across the binding has been filled with wood shavings and debris. “Why the hell didn’t Charlie tell me about this?” he growls after another moment, thinking that there’s _no way_ that girl could’ve missed such a wreck _._ Small rips and tears, mold spots and water damage— _sure_ , those things can be easy to overlook—but _this?_

Dean knows Charlie has been distracted by this new chick she’s dating, but books always have, and always will be her _first_ love, so seeing one go so mistreated _had_  to have gotten her attention.

He tilts to the side and rips his phone from his pocket, quickly scrolling through the few numbers he has saved to find Charlie’s, and the line is ringing just a second later.

“Hey, what did I forget?” she says upon answering, probably assuming that she forgot to lock the front door on her way out—a mistake that she’s been guilty of countless times.

Dean could laugh, and he would if the sight of the nail sticking out of that cover wasn’t just below his nose. “Oh, I don’t know—maybe it was the book that apparently Bob the Builder went ballistic on!”

“What?” Charlie mumbles, laughing innocently around the word.

“The How-To book, Charlie! The book that someone nailed shut! Like, literally _nailed shut!_ As if it was a goddamn coffin! A six inch galvanized nail, _bam!_ Right in the middle of the front cover!”

A small gasp tumbles over the line, and it sounds so genuine that Dean instantly feels guilty for raising his voice. “You didn’t see it?” he asks, lower, calmer than he was just a moment ago.

“ _No!_ ” Charlie cries, equal parts surprised and horrified, judging by the squeak in her voice. “I would’ve noticed _that!_ ” A long pause follows and then an ever larger sigh. “Maybe it was Melinda who brought it in.”

Dean nods, eyes widening with the explanation. The janitor, Melinda is always trying to do extra little things to help them out in the library. She’s a true sweetheart, and Dean can’t help but feel bad whenever the place is a mess after some event or function, because that woman is so timid and kind—the thought of her having to break her back to clean up after others makes him feel like a total ass. Often times, he’ll stay later just to give her a hand, which she always insists isn’t necessary. “Dean, _please_ —this is my job. I don’t mind it at all” she’ll say, but Dean will just shake his head and continue sweeping or mopping, or emptying the trash … anything to help her out.

Charlie carries on, “I know when the return bin gets really full at night, she’ll sometimes empty it out for us. She’ll stack the check-ins on my desk, and she sets the damaged ones on the stacks in the back for you. She probably didn’t know what else to do with a book like _that._ ”

“Yeah—okay” Dean grumbles, still very upset about the book, but he feels a little better knowing that it wasn’t neglected on purpose. “So, you didn’t check it in yet?”

Charlie hums at that. “Nah, no—I would’ve noticed the big ass nail if I had.”

With another nod, Dean grabs the book again and starts walking towards the door so he can get to the circulation desk. “Okay, well—I’ll check it in now and find out who this book-destroying D-bag is.”

“Keep me updated! I wanna know too.” And then Charlie sounds like she’s about to say goodbye but quickly stops herself. “Um—although, do ya mind telling me _tomorrow?_ I uh—I’m gonna be pretty busy tonight, remember?”

Dean smirks. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Enjoy your fish-dinner.”

“Fish? We’re going to a steakhouse—oh, _ew_. Oh my God, Dean!”

“What?” Dean laughs wickedly, walking up to the computer located at the front of the library.

“You’re so _wrong!_ ”

“ _What?_ ”

With even more fervor, Charlie groans again. “I’m hanging up now. Have fun tugging at your nail.”

And before Dean can think of something clever to say back, the girl hangs up on him—which is probably for the best, because if he kept going, he’d most likely end up really pissing her off. He does have a tendency to take a joke too far, especially if he’s already in a mood. With a long sigh, he turns his focus back to the book, wishing that there was something he could do help the poor thing. Some way to get back all the words that the nail impaled; but as good as he is, there _are_ some things that even _the wizard_ can’t mend.

After another moment of quiet consideration, Dean logs onto the computer and then onto Destiny, the program they use to manage the books. It’s also the program they use to keep track of all their patrons, so with a few clicks and then a scan of the barcode on the back of the wrecked text, Dean is reading the name of the dubious culprit … the dastardly fiend, the malevolent villain. The asswipe who decided to ruin a wonderful creation that’s only intention in life was to help.

“Castiel Novak” Dean reads— _he certainly sounds like a villain_.

For a second, he almost picks up the phone to call Charlie again, wanting to ask her if she recalls anyone by that name, but then he remembers how she said not to disturb her tonight, and he really doesn’t need that redhead all fired up and pissed off at him for ruining her magical third date.

So he sets his phone back on the counter and continues clicking away at the patron’s profile. First things first, he’s going to add a fine to it—the total cost of the book, which only amounts to $19.95, but he really considers adding on another fifty bucks for pain and suffering.

He doesn’t … _reluctantly_.

With that done, he then clicks on the patron number—the seven digit ID that each person gets when they obtain a library card. However, usually when they get their card, they also get their photo taken, and that photo is then attached to their patron profile. Dean wants to _see_ what this guy looks like so that he can be aware the next time he comes in.

 _Yeah_ , he hates talking to people, but he has no problem _confronting_ them, and this fartwaffle certainly deserves a confrontation!

_No picture._

_Figures_.

There _are_ certain patrons who sign up for their cards online; so unless they choose to add a picture, one isn’t attached to their ID. Not many people even know about that feature on their website though—or know that the library has a website at all, so it’s rare to see a photo-less account. They are located in a small suburb of Lawrence Kansas. It’s an old town with even older residents—not really a tech-savvy bunch. The only time a lot of young people come in is when the nearby community college has their midterms and finals, and even then—there aren’t _that_ many people signing up for cards.

It would just be Dean’s luck that _this_ _guy_ is one of the few in Lawrence to know his way around a computer.

“Shit” he mutters, really wanting to put a face to that name. “Castiel Novak” he says again, scrunching up his nose at the sound of it. “What kind of name is that?” he asks the empty library, as if one of the numerous books would explain it to him; and in all honesty, he probably _does have_ a book about the origins of names somewhere in the 400s … o _r maybe the 900s?_

_The Dewey Decimal System is a finicky thing._

He lifts his head up and glances towards the tall shelves in the back— and his mind wanders, and soon he’s chasing it down the stacks and pulling down book after book to try and figure out the source of the name.

If he can’t _see_ a picture of the guy, maybe he can read enough to form one in his head.

***

The next morning, Charlie arrived with bags under her eyes and barely brushed hair—but the huge smile on her face made the all of that hardly noticeable.

“Good night?” Dean asks, barely looking up from the desk calendar that he’s busily filling out.

“The—best—night— _EVER!_ ” the girl yelps, immediately collapsing into one of the other swivel chairs. “Dorothy … I mean … _wow._ Dean, like really … WOW! She’s _so_ pretty, and crazy, and— _in bed_ , OMG, let me tell ya! She—”

Dean holds up his hand. “Please, please _don’t_ tell me.”

“But—” Charlie protests, “Dean! Who else am I gonna share all the dirty details with?”

“Share ‘em with that _nerd squad_ ya chat with online.”

Charlie sticks up her nose at that idea. “Ew, no! Those guys would end up just grilling me with a million questions about what it’s like kissing a girl—considering _they_ never have before.”

Dean chuckles, figuring that she’s probably right.

“C’mon …” the redhead persists, “I listened to _you_ when you went out with that _Brad_ guy. Remember, you told me how when you two finally did the dirty, he had that twisted fantasy about putting a cucumber up your—"

Dean throws out his hand again, “Ehh! Okay, yeah—I don’t need to relive that, thank you very much! And in any case, you practically ripped that information out of me! I didn’t give it up voluntarily.”

Charlie folds her arms tightly around herself and pouts, probably because she knows she can’t argue with that fact. Any time Dean actually manages to land a date (a rare occurrence these days), the girl will grill him endlessly for every last detail—not letting him have a single moment of peace until he spills. But she continues to pout all the same, until the air in the small office is thick with it.

Dean rolls his eyes but eventually sighs and leans back in his chair, now focusing all his attention on Charlie. “Fine—you can tell me _one_ thing. Just one. That’s it, so choose wisely.”

The girl’s pout turns into a screwed up expression of disbelief. “ _One?_ How the heck can I tell you just one thing? That’s _impossible!_ ”

“Ugh, fine! Three things!” Dean groans, thinking for the trillionth time how he’s too easily pushed over by the people he loves. “Three and no more! And if you try to tell me crap that ya know I don’t wanna hear, then I’m blocking your ID, and you won’t be able to check out any more books.”

Charlie jumps back in mock horror, but they both know that she can easily _unblock_ her ID with just a couple clicks of a mouse.

_It’s a Library, not Fort Knox._

“Okay, _fine_. Three things. Three _glorious, sexy, fantabulous_ things …” Charlie then rests her chin on her fists and bites her lip a moment. “Hold on—let me think about how to word this so that you get the _best_ picture of my night.”

“Please—I don’t wanna picture it.”

“Hush, you!” Charlie spits before staring up at the ceiling and throwing herself into a deep meditation.

Dean rolls his eyes once more but eventually goes back to his calendar. He needs to fill in next month’s agenda. Local organizations will often book the library for events and fundraisers, much to Dean’s chagrin. Crowded noisy places are exactly why he loves escaping to the library, so it just feels wrong turning his sanctuary into one; but in a couple of weeks, the town’s soccer team will be holding an auction here to raise funds for new equipment. After that, the local senior community wants to arrange a “Books and Brunch”. These kinds of things are obviously _not_ at all Dean’s cup of tea, and he’d very much prefer getting rid of them altogether if he could, but he has to admit, they keep the doors open. Libraries are a dying breed, so he has to do everything he can to make sure that _his_ stays afloat. The librarian that came before him, Mrs. McCallin, was much better at putting together these sorts of functions and everyone in town used to come to them just because she asked. She was a pillar in the community, but when her health took a turn, she passed the reigns over to Dean. She trusted him to run this place just as well as she did, and there is no way in hell that he’ll let his antisocial tendencies make him disappoint her.

She had given him the clerk job after he dropped out of college. He was originally going to try for a degree in History, but _formally_ studying the subject was starting make him hate it, and he didn’t want to hate it. It was Ms McCallin however, that encouraged him to go back to school to get a degree in Library Science instead. So, with a few night classes and a bunch of online material, Dean was able to take over once that kind, old woman took her leave. But now, with the numbers slowly declining, and patronage at an all-time low, he fears that he may have been the _worst_ thing for this library. It’s no coincidence that after his switch to management, traffic through this place considerably slowed. It picked up _some_ once Charlie got settled in—she’s a people-person, and the people seem to enjoy seeing her face when they walk in the doors, but it still doesn’t appear to be enough.

Dean needs to do _more_ —think outside the box—be a better librarian if this tiny building is going to keep its doors open.

“Okay, I got it!”

A sharp pen mark streaks across his calendar with a jerk. “Jesus, Charlie! Ya gotta yell?”

The girl giggles but doesn’t seem too concerned with the result of her outburst, and she begins spinning in the swivel chair gleefully. “Sorry, but I figured out the three things!” she squeaks as she goes round and round, turning into a blur of red and joy.

Dean sighs as he reaches for the whiteout on the other end of the desk. “And?” he asks, not pretending to be truly interested.

“Okay—so, the first thing …” Charlie says, stopping her spins and suddenly looking very serious. “I think Dorothy could very well be the woman that I will spend the rest of my life with, _because_ , not only is she a big geek like me, she is also super adventurous and romantic and wants to travel the world, and we spent the first three hours of our date last night just listing off all the places that we want to visit—and I swear to God, Dean, our list matched almost perfectly … except for weird places like some small town in Idaho, but I think she said her Grandma lives there so I can’t really fault her for that, plus—”

“You realize that this is already _way_ more than three things, right?” Dean interjects.

“No! This is all _one_ thing— _given_ , it may be the world’s longest run-on sentence, but it’s still just one thing.”

Dean rolls his eyes but then waves his hand lazily, signaling her to continue.

Charlie grins, obviously pleased that he isn’t fighting her on this.

The truth is, he’s too tired to, because he spent most of the night researching that damn name.

“ _Anyway_ —so she wants to travel, and so do I, and I am thinking we’ll have our wedding in Spain. Doesn’t that sound amazing? Spain?”

“You two are already talking marriage?” Dean asks, raising a curious brow at her while still focusing on fixing his calander.

Charlie blushes. “Well, _no_ —that doesn’t count as one of the three by the way. That was just a random thought.” She clears her throat and then continues on. “The second thing is that she has a freakin’ Winne-the-Pooh quote tattooed on her hip! Winnie-the-Pooh, Dean! How cute is that?”

Dean pulls his head up and squints at her before setting the whiteout back where it was, having since rectified the cruel gash in his ever-so-meticulous plans. “Depends on the quote, I guess.”

Charlie groans at him. “Uh- not really, because everything that comes out of that little bear’s mouth is pure love and sunshine, but if you _must_ know, the quote is: ‘ _Sometimes the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.’_ Isn’t that adorable?”

Dean shrugs, even though—it _is_ pretty cute.  
“I think it’s _super_ adorable!” Charlie swoons, not giving a wink about Dean’s opinion anyway. “Dorothy said that she got it after her dog died. She had him since she was in the first grade, and he died just after she turned eighteen, so she wanted to commemorate his life. Doesn’t that tell you she’s a wonderful person?”

“Uh, _not really._ I’m sure there are plenty of creepers out there who loved their dogs like that” Dean says with a smirk.

Charlie subsequently picks up the “DISCARD” stamp from the box on the table beside her, and chucks it at his head. “Why are you _always_ so negative?”

Dean deflected the projectile and laughs. “I’m just being realistic!”

“ _No_ , you’re being Dean-the-Downer, as usual! I’m trying to tell you that I think I’m in love with this chick, and you’re trying to make her out to be Freddy Krueger or something!”

“If the striped sweater fits.”

Another stamp is immediately flung at Dean’s head.

Charlie huffs. “Can I tell you the third thing, or not?”

Dean bends over and picks up the stamps, making sure neither of them are broken. They’re actually not as easy to replace as one might think. “Depends … is it gross?”

The girl rolls her eyes yet again, but shakes her head zealously. “ _No!_ It’s actually something that I think you’ll really respect.”

Dean stares up at her, expecting his friend to be making a face at him, but instead—she seems very sincere. “Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, when she was sixteen, she had to drop out of school to take care of her younger sister. They didn’t know their dad, and their mom died in a freak accident at work, so Dorothy had to take over. She got a job and she saved up what she could, and when her little sister graduated high school, she was actually able to give her some money for college. I just thought that that was really admirable—and it reminded me quite a bit of some super grumpy, negative dude that I work with.”

Dean’s face heats up, and guilt begins to roil in his stomach but he clears his throat to try and will it away. “ _Oh_ ” is all he can think to say.

“Uh huh” Charlie yips, sitting up straighter while glaring at him haughtily.

“Well—uh, yeah. She sounds … she sounds like a good one. Don’t screw it up.”

Charlie spits out a laugh before collapsing into her chair once more. “Wow, Dean Winchester—you should become a professional pep-talker. I mean _really._ A+ material. Astounding. _Bravo!_ ” She exaggerates a clap in his direction.

“What? Sorry, okay! I’m just saying, I’m happy for you is all.”

Charlie smiles more genuinely now before peeling herself from the seat. She then walks over to him and pats him on the shoulder. “Yeah, I know. In your messed up way—I know that you care.”

He tries to bat her arms aside, but still she succeeds in giving him a far too intimate hug. “Castiel Novak!” he suddenly yelps, short circuiting with the sudden _heart-to-heart_ he’s found himself in.

“ _What?_ ” Charlie asks, pulling away quickly so that she can look at the top of his head in confusion.

Dean’s face reddens even more. “The guy! The uh—the book nailer.”

Charlie snickers. “Heh, _dirty_.”

“Shuddup” Dean grunts, smiling despite his words. “That’s the guy’s name … the one who absolutely _destroyed_ one of our books … Castiel Novak.”

“Oh yeah! Where is that book? I wanna see it! You didn’t throw it out already, did you?” Charlie asks, now sniffing around the tiny office like a bloodhound.

“It’s in the back” Dean says, gesturing to his right with his pen.

In a flash, Charlie is out and then back in again, now with the crucified text in her hand. “Cheese and rice! How the hell did he do this?”

Dean growls, getting angry all over now that the poor book is back in his sights. “It’s probably some jackass kid, trying to play a prank. Or—maybe some religious freak, trying to send a message.”

“What?” Charlie says once more, this time with a squawk. “Where’d you get _that_ idea? I mean—I understand the kid-thing, but …”

Dean sighs and then leans back in the desk chair, tilting his chin towards the ceiling before rubbing at his sleepy eyes. “The dude’s name … _Castiel_. It means ‘Shield of God’. It’s also the name of the _Angel of Thursday_ or some shit, but my guess is that the whole _God-shield_ thing is more relevant to all this.”

“How so?” Charlie asks, still seeming very perplexed by Dean’s reasoning.

“The nail!” Dean blurts, feeling like this should all be so obvious. “The nail through the whole book—and it’s a carpentry book, well … _kinda_. But still—Jesus was a carpenter, and the nail represents the stigmata. And I’m sure the staples are symbolic somehow too. I’m guessing it’s a message from some bible-thumper who’s upset about God knows what, and decided to take it out on our library.”

The redhead stares at him for a long moment, just before she busts out laughing.

Dean feels the frustration billow up his throat. “What’s so funny?” he hisses.

“You! You’re hilarious right now! Oh my God!” The girl continues cracking up as Dean continues to stew.

“I don’t see anything funny about that!” Dean insists, but Charlie doesn’t pay him any mind.

After another minute or two, she finally settles down, sitting once more in the swivel chair so she can thoroughly inspect the book. “First of all, Dean—just because the dude’s name has religious meaning, doesn’t mean that _he_ is religious, just that his parents are. And _yeah_ , I suppose he could’ve changed his name to that, but that’s unlikely. Second of all—why the heck would a religious nutso decide to deface the book of some tiny, podunk library in the sticks? What good would that possibly do? If we were the Library of Congress, or even some prestigious college facility, _fine_ —but the West Lawrence County Library? We’re not exactly a hotbed of social issues, my friend. And lastly, the only person who sounds crazy around here, _is you_ with all those wild conspiracy theories. Where’d you even come up with all this anyway?”

He’s all but folded in on himself by the time Charlie is done with her speech, knowing that she’s right and really he does sound like a loon. Dean then proceeds to tell her how he spent most of the night obsessively scouring the stacks for information on the odd name, since the man’s patron profile didn’t do him any good.

“And you thought that the religious history of a biblical sounding name would help you understand why some guy was a careless ass with our book?”

Dean shrugs sheepishly.

“Oh, goodness. You really need to get out more, man. Seriously! When’s the last time you went somewhere other than _here_ or home? When’s the last time you had a conversation with someone other than Sam or me?”

“I chatted with the sales guy when I ordered some books yesterday.” Dean offers, feeling even more embarrassed as soon as he says it.

“Jeez! You know that’s not what I meant! _Really_ , let’s go out tonight. Let’s do something! Who knows, maybe you’ll make a friend—hell, maybe you’ll  even get laid!” Charlie is already bouncing up and down with the thought.

Dean’s cheeks heat up as he grumbles. “Uh, _no_ —I have a lot of work to catch up on” which is true, considering he spent most of his night doing nothing of real worth at all.

“C’mon, Dean! Please! Let’s do something!”

Dean turns his focus back to the calendar, immediately refusing to look anywhere else. “Shouldn’t you be unlocking everything by now? We open in ten minutes.”

He can’t see her but he knows that Charlie is frowning at him; and soon, the destroyed book is being slid onto his the desk beneath his nose. “Fine, but I will convince you one of these nights, just you wait.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll see” he mutters as Charlie’s steps turn around and fade out the door. He peeks up just as the last strands of her red hair are billowing away. “Oh, and keep an eye out for that Novak guy. If he comes in, I wanna have a word with him!”

“Whatever” Charlie hollers from somewhere out on the floor of the library.

Dean grunts to himself, “Yeah, _whatever_.”

***

Two weeks came and went. The soccer fundraiser was a success by all intents and purposes, and the days that followed were actually pretty busy, considering Lawrence High School just implemented a more rigorous exit exam for its seniors. Dean had been so swamped with work that he had nearly forgotten about that damaged book, and the infamous _Castiel Novak_ —that is, until he sat down on Friday night to begin the weekly repairs.

The first few books were just the standard messes—loose hinges, bindings in need of reinforcement, and some serious stains that would take several wet wipes to remove, but nothing that Dean couldn’t knock out in just a few minutes each… but then, _came the cookbook._

A seemingly normal looking cookbook, except—it had a rather horrifying smell coming from it.

Dean’s stomach twisted a little as he slowly opened it up, worried that there might be a dead mouse trapped in the spine (he’s seen it before) but when that front cover was finally pulled away, Dean found himself wishing it _was a_ mouse.

There, right in the center of the title page like the thing was a target, was a whole and completely squashed hardboiled egg. The once yellow yolk was now a rancid looking green, and the whites of the egg were smooshed across the flyleaf in browning, goopy chunks. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Dean booms, flipping through a few more pages, to see if there were any other food items hiding between them. For the most part, there were only smudges at the corners of each recipe, and a few tears in the center of the papers, but nothing awful—until he reached page thirteen, which had almost been completely burned out of the book. There are just a few charred shreds left holding it to the woven signature.

“Melinda!” Dean calls out, knowing that he’s been here long enough now that she’s probably already out on the floor cleaning up.

“Dean? You’re still here?” Soon enough, the woman’s brown, curly head is popping into the back room. “Why aren’t you home yet? All this can wait until Monday, I’m sure.”

Dean smiles at her quickly, but then lifts up the cookbook and he sobers his face. “Did you put this back here?”

Melinda’s eyes narrow on the book as she takes a step closer, but then stops—probably because the smell of that awful thing jogged her memory. “Oh, _yes_. I’m sorry—was I not supposed to? It’s just, the bin was overflowing and I didn’t want to put something that smelled that bad out on the floor and—”

Dean stands up, shaking his head as he softly smiles at her, feeling horrible that he came off so accusatory. “No, no—sorry, I didn’t mean …” he sighs, “I was actually wondering if you happened to see who dropped this off. They must have done so after hours because Charlie usually empties the bin before she leaves.”

Melinda’s frown only deepens. “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t see who dropped it off, I just remember that it came in the day before yesterday.” She sighs. “I wish I could be more help.”

“It’s okay, really. Please don’t feel bad—I just wanna catch the guy who’s doing this to my books.” Dean says, assuming that this has to be the same jackass who destroyed his How-To book a few weeks ago. _It can’t be a coincidence_. After another deep breath, he puts his hand on Melinda’s shoulder and rubs it softly with his thumb, which finally seems to take the edge off her concern. “But don’t worry, this isn’t your problem, and I really appreciate you going the extra mile for us. It doesn’t go unnoticed, I promise.”

The woman nods, and soon smiles a little before turning around to get back to her work. Dean watches her go, making a mental note to get her a thank-you-gift of some sort in the next few days. _Maybe Charlie will have some ideas._

After one more second of thought, Dean scurries out of the back room to head to the circulation desk computer, wanting to know for certain if his suspicion is correct.

He logs on, pulls up Destiny, heads over to "Copy Status” and then scans the back of the foul smelling book.

“ _Castiel Novak_ ” Dean growls under his breath, gritting his teeth so hard that his jaw actually cracks.

“Are you alright?” Melinda asks from across the walkway, probably noting the furious look on his face as she empties out the recycling bin.

He quickly tries to temper his rage, not wanting to accidently take it out on Melinda a second time. “Yes—yes, I’m fine. I just don’t understand _why_ someone would treat a book this way … especially a book that’s not theirs!”

“Perhaps it was an accident?” Melinda offers, trying to find the good in the situation like she always does.

But Dean can’t help shaking his head. “I don’t think smashing an egg in it and then setting it on fire was an accident. I _really_ think someone is trying to prank us—and doing so at the cost of our books.”

Melinda huffs in some air and then lets it out slowly, frowning a little as she meets Dean’s eyes once more. “I truly hope that isn’t the case, but I will keep a lookout for anyone dropping off their books after hours.”

“Thank you, Melinda” Dean says, once again feeling guilty that he’s asking _even_ _more_ of this woman.

“Of course. Now … you should head on home. You need your rest.”

He glances to the right and out the window—noting how dark it’s gotten. “Yeah, you’re probably right” he says, yawning immediately afterwards with the mere thought of his bed. “Let me just take care of this first.” Dean holds up the fetid book and Melinda nods, both of them knowing that something like that is far beyond saving.

So once again, Dean turns to the computer and begins going through Destiny to pull up the book’s copy information. With another scan of the barcode, he deletes that poor, mistreated, innocent cookbook from his collection … or as they say in the library world—he _weeds_ it out. Then he heads back into the office to get his DISCARD stamp from the box, quickly stamping all three sides of the pages as well as the back cover. And after that, he sharpies out the barcode and spine label so that there’s no chance the thing will be found and returned to the library.

Then, with one last look at the cover of “Culinary Masterpiece —Easy to Follow Recipes” Dean drops the book into the trash.

***

“Oh for Christ’s fucking sake! You gotta be kidding me!”

“What? What is it?” Charlie yelps, running in from off the floor, probably thinking Dean caught himself on fire with all _that_ ruckus.

“Another one!” Dean shouts, holding up a book on oil painting—at least, that’s what he’s assuming it’s about considering it’s completely covered in paint. And where there isn’t paint, the ink has been eaten away by turpentine.

“Another Novak book?” Charlie groans, coming closer to take the colorful, flaky thing from Dean’s hand. She tries to open it, but all the pages are painted shut.

“Yeah! What the hell! What the fucking hell is wrong with this dude?”

Charlie clicks her tongue and shakes her head, eventually handing the book back to him. “I don’t know. This is the eighth one now.”

“And you said that he checked out all these books at the same time?”

That redhead nods somberly.

After the cookbook, Dean had asked her to go through the library stats and see what else this Novak-guy had taken, and they sadly, found quite a long list of titles—all logged on the same day, and no one has seen the guy since. “Yup—those plus three more; and so far, every single one of them has come back ruined. I think you were right with that whole prank-theory.”

“And you don’t remember what he looked like, or even checking these things out to him in the first place?”

“No—I wish I did” Charlie says, looking just as upset as Dean now. “It was probably during our busy-time; but if I had known what he was gonna do to our books, I would’ve paid more attention to his face, or just kicked his butt outta the library right then and there!”

Dean groans. “And all his fines are still unpaid?” He asks, but he already knows the answer to that.

“Yeah—and all the notices are going unanswered too, and he didn’t list a phone number when he signed up for the card. Just a home address and an e-mail address.”

“Then I should just go to his freakin’ house!” Dean growls, tossing the useless book onto the work bench before flopping back into his seat.

“You are _not_ going to accost a patron at their home, Dean” Charlie scolds, side eyeing him like she’s actually worried he’ll do it.

And truthfully, _he might._ He’s certainly angry enough. This is madness! And the madness has to stop!

“ _Dean_ …”

“Fine!” Dean spits, throwing up his hands at the idea. “I won’t go there!”

“Good.”

“But I _will_ stake the asshole out _here,_ every night until I catch him dropping off the next book.”

Charlie laughs at that … until she realizes, _he’s serious._ “Wait … what? Really? You’re gonna have a stakeout?”

“Yeah. You got any better ideas?”

“Um—yeah, _not_ doing that!”

Dean makes a face at her before turning back towards his stack of repairs. “Whatever … I’m stayin’ here, and watching the return bin. And as soon as something drops through the slot, I’m gonna bust through the back door and catch the bastard in the act! And then he can either apologize and pay up, or he can talk to the cops, because I’ll have him charged with the destruction of property or some shit. That’s a law, right?”

Charlie is gawking at him like he’s really lost his mind this time. “ _Dean_ …”

“Don’t even try, Charlie. I’m doing this! I’ll run home, get some shit to tide me over, and then I’m hunkering down _right here!_ ” He pounds the arms of his chair for emphasis. “Now, you’ll still be here for a while, right?” he asks her hurriedly. They closed about twenty minutes ago, but Charlie usually sticks around for another hour, catching up on things that she wasn’t able to finish with people on the floor.

“ _Yeah_ ” she says cautiously.

“ _Good_. Finish up, but don’t leave until I get back. I don’t want this fucker slipping by us _again_.”

“You’ve lost your marbles, dude. Like _really_ —every last one. The lack of sex and all that mold has finally gotten to you. This is it—the end of Dean Winchester as we know it! Goodbye, dear friend! _Goodbye!_ ” Charlie bellows, before pinching her nose and humming whiningly at the back of her throat, sounding like a sad bagpipe at a funeral.

Dean rolls his eyes at her dramatics, but doesn’t stop to contest them. He just grabs his jacket off the back of the chair and goes bolting out the door.

***

 _Yeah_ , he knows he’s being irrational. It’s not like he’s denying it.

_This is nuts._

But, he has a business to run, a job to do, and one of the main parts of his job is protecting the books! Now, he usually does so with plastic covers and magnetic strips, but … who said he couldn’t go the extra mile? There’s no rule in the Librarian-Handbook that says he has to be docile and timid in order to do well in this environment. _No_ , he can be the _badass_ librarian.

_The Rambo of the Bookcases!_

_The Terminator of Texts!_

Well … _okay_ , that last one sounds counterproductive, but _whatever_. In any case, he will stay here in this dusty, overcrowded back room between the heaps of damaged books and the boxes of outdated material, just waiting for his moment to strike!

However, the moment doesn’t seem very eager to be present itself; and as the clock on his phone changes from 3:59 to 4:00 am, his will to strike is fading a bit.

“C’mon, ya freak. It’s been at least a few days since you last destroyed one of my books. I’m sure you’ve probably got to another one to bring back—so, _bring it back already!_ Drop it in that slot and make my fuckin’ day! I can’t wait to see the look on your face when I bust outta here and catch your smarmy ass mid-run!”

He might usually get embarrassed talking to himself like this, but he’s too tired and too pissed to care right now.

He just wants this to be _over_.

His phone buzzes suddenly and it makes him jump.

“Who the hell …” he begins to ask out loud, but he stops, because he knows it _has_ to be Sam. After another moment, he has his cell out and he’s answering the call. “So, how’s my insomniac little brother doing?” he says with a forced glee.

“Probably better than you” Sam snips, with no force at all. “I just saw this text from Charlie, saying that you’ve gone crazy and are staking out some dude at the library? What the hell, man? Is this a fetish thing? Are you a voyeur now?”

Dean rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. He should’ve known that girl would rat him out to his baby brother— _that’s so like her._ “No! And it’s not as insane as you think, okay? I just want to catch the douchebag who has been burning through my inventory … _quite literally!_ We got one book back last week that looked like it was dropped in a river! Seriously, I found a slug in it!”

“Which book was it?” Sam asks calmly.

“Uh—a guide for beginning campers, but what does that matter? The point is, the thing was trashed!”

Sam exhales heavily into the phone, and the judgment permeating through it is so thick, Dean can almost feel it smacking against his cheek. “ _Dean_ … what good is going to come from confronting this guy in the dead of night?”

Dean flaps his mouth a moment, unsure of how to answer that, because _honestly_ —he has no good response, at least … not one good enough for Sammy.

“Besides, who’s to say the next person to drop something off will be _him?_ You might leap out of there and scare some old man half to death! Or _completely_ to death! I know Mr. Wilkens walks his dog at night, so who knows. _He_ could be out there right now, trying to do the right thing and return your property on time, only to meet his end because my crazy older brother has a vendetta against some college kid with a crap sense of humor.”

Dean is too embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t thought of that. A lot of people return their books at night— come to think of it, the majority do. Most of them, because they want to avoid their overdue charges, but some just find it to be the most convenient time to get it done. Just because a book gets dropped off through that slot, doesn’t mean _Novak_ will the one on the other side. Dean needs to be careful with this; and he’s just lucky that this is apparently a really slow night, or else his little stakeout could’ve resulted in assault charges, _or worse_. “That’s not gonna happen, Sam” Dean says, adding a silent “now” at the end of the statement.

“Uh huh … it won’t now that I brought it to your attention.”

“Shut up.” His baby brother always did have a way of reading his mind.

Sam sighs loudly once more and then presses the phone closer to his mouth. “Just don’t give me a reason to worry about you, man.”

With that, Dean frowns and looks down at the workbench, hating the sharp turn that this conversation just took. “Hey, _I’m_ the big brother. Worrying is _my_ job—and speaking of which, why are you still up?”

There’s a long silence, and Dean’s stomach knots with all the worst-case-scenarios, but then Sam finally speaks again. “I just have a lot of exams this coming week, so I’ve been up late studying. I swear to God, this law degree is gonna kill me.”

Dean smiles, first with relief and then with humor. “Hey, hey, hey now! Uh uh, no dying before you walk across that stage! That’s the only thing I got to look forward to these days.”

“No pressure” Sam grunts miserably.

“None at all. Now go to bed! You won’t ace a single test if you’re sleeping through ‘em.”

“Yeah—true” Sam sighs, sounding younger now than he did just a moment ago.

_He’ll always be young to Dean._

“You need to go to bed too, though. You aren’t gonna catch the guy who—”

Just then, a book slips in through the slot, causing a deep _thunk_ to echo across the small room; and Dean is leaping from his seat immediately. “That’s him!” he shouts, dropping the phone onto the workbench as he goes bolting to the backdoor.

If he was paying attention, he’d be able to hear his brother yelling “Dean!” from the discarded cell on the tabletop, but he’s in too much of a rush to do anything now but carry out his attack while all of Sam’s warnings seep from his head.

Every concern he had about getting the wrong guy, _are gone_ the second Dean busts through that door—but as he lays eyes  on an absolutely petrified old woman, Dean recalls them all instantly.

“Oh—oh my!” the lady shouts, teetering backwards in the light of the street lamp, covering her face in horror.

Dean’s forward motion had just come to a stop, but the booming sound of him shrieking “GOTCHA!” is still ringing in his ears.

“Please, don’t hurt me!” the old woman shouts, holding out her purse with a shaky hand. “Take it. Take it and leave me alone—please!”

Dean is still—struck stupid with his own, monumental stupidity. “Oh god, _shit_ —I mean—crap … mam, I’m— _crap_ , I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to … uh … I just … _please_ , I won’t … _I’m not_ —” he needs to get his head together quick before Sam’s premonition _really_ comes true and this woman’s heart stops completely. “I’m not gonna hurt you! I’m sorry! I thought you were someone else, and—I’m an idiot. _Please …_ I work here, I’m the librarian. I just—I didn’t think that you were gonna be, well— _you_.”

The shivering, terrified old woman—uncurls herself a little, taking a hesitant glance back up at Dean, and then, all at once, she stands up straight— her face, _cold_ and stoned with fury. “Young man! What on earth were you thinking scaring me like that? I should have you arrested for this! At _this_ hour of morning? Scaring an old woman half to death? Was this your idea of a joke? A prank? I would think someone in your position and at your age would have outgrown such foolishness, but apparently, I am very wrong!”

Dean is shrinking by the second, and he knows he deserves every harsh word this old woman has to cut him with. “Again, I am _so_ sorry. I really wasn’t trying to be funny or cruel—I just thought you were someone else, someone who has been causing me a lot of grief. I apologize, _please_ —how can I make it up to you?”

She huffs and stares down her nose at him, but she doesn’t continue with her berating. “ _Hm_ … alright then. If you do _truly_ want to make it up to me, you’ll forgive the twenty eight dollar fine that I have accrued here. My last name is Winters, first name Deborah. Erase those and we’ll call is square.”

Dean makes a face, not expecting this old woman to be one of the “late night fine avoiders” but apparently, they can come in all shapes and sizes. “Yeah, sure—of course. I’ll take care of that right away. And, I’m sorry … _again_.”

Mrs. Winters nods curtly and then hobbles away, mumbling under her breath with every step about how she almost met her death at the library.

“Fuck” Dean mutters to himself, suddenly remembering that Sam was still on the phone when he rushed out here. He really hopes that his baby brother grew tired of waiting and hung up, because he _really_ doesn’t feel like telling him about any of this.

“Well, that seemed like an unfortunate encounter.”

The deep voice rumbles out from behind him and Dean instantly spins around with a wild punch, already too shaken up to _not_ be on the defensive.

The man is standing a little further than Dean is expecting though, so his punch hits nothing but air, and the momentum sends him stumbling forward until he’s nearly running headlong into the guy.

“Um, are you alright?” the strange man asks, taking a step back before Dean has a chance to smash into his chest.

Dean grunts as he tries to regain his footing, eventually stabilizing himself and straightening back out. “What the hell, man?” he growls, really wishing now that he’d listened to Charlie and forgot about this whole stupid idea.

The other man just tilts his head at him, like a dog perking up at the sound of its own name. “Yes?”

“You can’t just sneak up on people like that!” Dean hisses, trying desperately to calm his still-racing heart.

“Well, _that_ seems to be the pot calling the kettle black, doesn’t it?”

Now the blood rushing in his neck—runs up to his face, and he can feel his ears get hot with anger. “Look— _that_ was an accident! I didn’t mean to scare that old lady!”

“And I didn’t mean to scare _you_ ” the stranger says coolly.

“Yeah but—”

“If you don’t mind,” the other man interrupts, stepping around Dean in one, swift motion, “I would like to return this book, and I would prefer to get back home before sunup.”

Dean gawks at the guy, wondering where the hell he gets the nerve to be so callous. “Look, I—” but then he spots it, the book that the other man is holding … at least, it _was_ a book. But in the orange glow of the lamp overhead,  Dean sees that now it’s just a mushed up mess of brown, wrinkled paper. In a blink, he is ripping out of the stranger’s hand.

“Excuse me!” he growls, staring at Dean with bright blue, furious eyes. “Is this a habit of yours? Attacking people who come to return library books?”

But now Dean isn’t too flustered to respond— _he_ has the upper hand here. “ _No_ , just the assholes who like to return my books, destroyed! I mean _what the fuck_ , dude?” He holds up the wadded text for emphasis. “What did you do to _this_ one? Flush it down a toilet?”

“No …” the man says flatly. “I accidently fermented it.”

Dean’s face twists in on itself. “You _what?_ ”

The stranger—now known to be the notorious Castiel Novak, sighs—as if explaining all this is completely unnecessary. “I was attempting to brew my own beer, but the hops weren’t boiling down correctly, so I was reading the book and looking over the edge of the vat to see where I had gone wrong, and then I set the book down on the edge of the vat to check the temperature gauge, and I must’ve knocked it in with my movement. I didn’t realize it was in there until a few days later, which of course, had a poor effect on my beer. In any event, the book was illegible at that point, so I couldn’t figure out how to rectify the process; then I gave up on it, and now I’m here.”

Dean stares wide eyed at the man, completely taken aback by every word that came out of his mouth—and it takes him a long moment before he can even form one of his own. “The beer?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side again. “Yes?”

“The _beer_ is what you’re hung up on?”

Castiel continues to look at him, as if Dean is now speaking another language entirely. “I’m not quite sure what you’re getting at.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open, and he grunts and growls, and even laughs a time or two at the sheer audacity of this guy. “My book, you fucking nimrod! You ruined my perfectly good book!”

And, _that_ apparently, was the least of the other man’s concerns, judging by the way he smiles and sighs with relief. “Oh, yes—that. Well, it’s just a book; therefore, I don’t think it warrants you calling me names.”

It takes every ounce of Dean’s strength not to take the remainder of that book and smash it over the guy’s head. “Uh, _fuck yes_ it does! You asshat! You dickweed! You—you, smarmy mouthed titty nugget!”

Castiel blinks a few times and then flares his nostrils. “I don’t think that last one was an insult as much as it was, _plain nonsense_.”

“Look, man—”

“Are we done here? I really do need to be getting home.”

But Dean stomps in closer, until he’s almost nose to nose with the other man. “No! No we are _not_ done here! You have racked up quite a hefty amount of fines with all the books that you’ve been destroying, and I’m not letting you leave here until you pay them! It’s either _that_ , or I call the cops and have _them_ help me get through to you!”

Once again, Castiel is laughing. “Money? That’s what all this is about? Well, fine then— _here_ …” after another moment, the strange man is pulling a money clip out of his back pocket, containing quite a large wad of cash. “How much do I owe in fines—roughly? I don’t want to bother with change.”

And Dean is once again gawking at this guy, wondering what freaking planet he just touched down from. “I don’t—”

“You _have_ to have an estimate” Castiel grumbles, squinting his eyes at Dean. “Fifty dollars? A hundred? Two hundred?”

Dean continues to stare, unable to speak at all with those large, icy blues trained on him.

Castiel sighs. “ _Fine_ , here’s three hundred. I am certain that will cover it, with some to spare. Now, if there’s nothing else …” He shoves the money at Dean’s chest and holds it there until Dean finally lifts his hand to take it.

“Good” Castiel confirms with a huff. “I will be on my way, then. Have a good evening, Mr …”

“Uh …” Dean’s baffled mind resets, working strictly on default now and canceling out all the vile, angry things he should be saying, “Winchester. I’m Dean Winchester.”

“And I am Castiel Novak—but I’m sure you already knew that” he says, a smug smile pulling at the corner of his lip. “Have a good evening, Dean. Well, I suppose it’s more correct to say _have good morning_ at this point,” and with a tilt of his head, Castiel gestures towards the horizon—where the sun is rising at the edge. “It appears I won’t be making it home before sunup after all” he mumbles, more to himself than anyone.

“Uh, yeah—sorry ‘bout that.” Dean replies lowly, instantly cussing himself out, because he really doesn’t need to be apologizing for _anything._

Castiel shrugs a little before glancing up the road. “No worries.  I suppose I’ll be seeing you around—that is, if you plan on playing _jack in the box_ the next time I come by.” From the corner of his eye, the odd man peers back at Dean and smiles slyly, before turning on is heel to walk away, casually slipping the money clip back into his pocket  as he struts.

The motion causes Dean’s eyes to drop below the man’s waist, and now he is finding himself transfixed on the plump, perky ass that’s highlighted perfectly by Castiel’s handsomely-fitted jeans. “ _Damn_ ” Dean mutters to himself, looking Castiel up and down over and over again. His shoulders are broad and his thighs are thick and muscly. His arms look toned and tan beneath the rolled up sleeves of that white button up shirt. And now that Dean’s thinking about it, the first two buttons on that shirt were undone, exposing a rather delicious bit of collarbone. Blue eyes, dark hair, pink, pink lips—if this guy wasn’t such an asshole, he’d be straight out of Dean’s wet dreams.

_No._

He’s not gonna do this! He’s not going to find something redeeming about this fucker. Dean clenches his fist as he watches Castiel disappear around a corner.

“I’m not gonna have the hots for a book murderer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was originally going to be a one-shot (like so many of my chapter fics) but I just can't seem to condense the story that much. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope it's not as rough as I think it is.
> 
> Please let me know if you're enjoying it so far— and thank you so much for reading!


	2. Out There

* * *

* * *

“How’s our very own Kojak this morning?” Charlie chuckles, sliding a large cup of coffee up beside Dean’s head as he rests it on the surface of his desk.

He slept in the office last night … or, this morning, for about an hour and a half—until it was time to start getting ready to open.  But even after he came in from outside, it was difficult for him to get to sleep, because his blood was still pumping hard through his veins, with both anger and reluctant arousal.

And when he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were riddled with blue eyes and gritted teeth, and harsh, spitted words that made the touch of Castiel’s hands, so much hotter for some reason.

Dean pushes down his eager dick with his palm; thankfully, it's concealed by the desk. Then he lazily grabs the coffee cup with his other hand, looking at it like it’s the answer to all his problems. “Miserable” he finally responds before lifting his head a little to take a long, slow slip.

“Yeah, I could’ve guessed that, because you look awful.”

Dean growls but doesn’t refute Charlie’s comment—because, _one_ , he knows it’s true, and two, this coffee is too damn good to stop drinking.

“So …” Charlie speaks up again after another moment. “Tell me, did you catch the guy? Is he in evil, bad, book-abuser jail?”

Dean still doesn’t say a word, leaving the girl with only the sounds of his slurps for conversation.

Charlie hums impatiently. “So, he didn’t show up then? You spent all night here for nothing?”

Dean sits up straighter and tilts himself back in his seat, turning the cup completely upside down so the last few drops of coffee can coat his tongue.

“C’mon, Dean! I need to know!” Charlie whines, stomping her foot on the ground like a child. “I know Sam called you. He texted me after you apparently hung up on him last night. He said that someone dropped off a book and you ran away like a madman! So, was it Novak?”

Dean frowns with the emptiness of his cup but finally sets it down on the desk again, eventually wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “ _First of all_ …” he begins, voice rough with the lack of sleep, “I didn’t hang up on Sam. I just—kinda stopped talking to him.”

The girl rolls her eyes, but she steps in closer, eager to hear the rest.

“Secondly … why the hell did you have to tell Sammy about this anyway? He’s never gonna let me live it down.”

“Live _what_ down? Dean! Tell me what happened? Did you catch the guy or not?” Charlie is almost shrieking now, and her trill is hurting Dean’s head.

He grimaces but he doesn’t say anything else, he just opens up his desk drawer and pulls out the wad of cash that Castiel had given him only a few hours before, and then tosses it in Charlie's direction.

Her green eyes widen as she looks at the bills, and then they drag back up to Dean. “Oh my God … you _did_ catch him! You caught Novak! I can’t believe it! Your plan worked!” She quickly bends down to pick up the money, gawking at it; but then she stops, tilting up to stare suspiciously at Dean. “So, if you caught him … why aren’t you celebrating?”

Dean sighs while rubbing his face with his hands. He wants to go home. He wants to take a hot shower. He wants to _not_ talk about last night with anyone ever again, but he knows—Charlie won’t allow for any of that, not until she’s heard the _whole_ story. “I’m not celebrating, because it wasn’t a victory.”

Charlie frowns, setting the money down on the corner of the desk once more before quickly pulling up a chair-- knowing a good story is on the horizon. “How so? He paid you. _Hell_ , he grossly _overpaid_ you. That seems pretty victorious to me!”

Dean groans loudly and then plops his head backwards, staring sleepily at the dingy ceiling of the office. “Yeah, but that didn’t seem like any sort of consequence to this guy. I mean, I was expecting to either scare the piss out of him and _make him_ sorry, or reason with him and have him be _genuinely_ sorry. But neither thing would work on this dude. He was a fucking weirdo! It’s like—it’s like he didn’t even think there was a problem. Like, it seemed as though he thought _I_ was overreacting! He basically just stared at me, laughed at me, and then handed me a wad of cash.”

“Wow” Charlie says, eyes round with captivation. “He sounds like a real villain alright.”

“Not really though…” Dean counters, finally lifting his head so he can look at her with reason. “That’s the thing … other than being weird, he was just a normal dude. My age, maybe a little older. Well dressed. Seemed fit. Well off, _obviously_ , but just—fuckin’ _oblivious_ that he was in the wrong, and it made _me_ hesitate … like, _I_ started questioning if he really _was_ in the wrong. And _I know_ he was fucking in the wrong! Of course he was, I mean—just look at the book that was returning _this_ time!” Dean pulls the beer soaked book from behind his computer and slides it towards Charlie. “He said he _fermented_ it. That’s the book he checked out on how to brew your own beer … but the only thing he brewed was the book itself! Can you believe that shit?” Dean shakes his head as he glowers at the tortured thing

“Fit?” Charlie finally responds, a strange tone to her voice that instantly puts Dean on edge.

“What?” he grunts, glancing between her and the book, trying to figure out what exactly she’s talking about.

“ _You said_ … you said that the Novak guy _looked fit_. That’s a strange thing to say about someone you’re really angry with … _unless_ … unless you were—oh my God! Dean! Were you checking this guy out?”

“What?” Dean squeaks, swallowing hard while trying to keep his face from getting red. “That asshole? Hell no _!_ ”

But Charlie sees right through him— _not that he’s covering anything up very well._ “You’re such a liar!” she coos. “Oh my God … okay, so he’s hot? Like, what kind of hot? Like the, ‘I want him to lick me and spank me’ kind of hot, or more the ‘I can see us opening a bed n’ breakfast on the Oregon coast someday’ kind of hot?”

Dean groans loudly before dropping his head back onto the surface of his desk, too tired to try and lie anymore. “ _Both_ ” he grumbles miserably, wishing now more than ever that he never told Charlie about his guilty-pleasure collection of romance novels.

The girl’s following excited scream nearly kills him. “Oh my God, Dean! Oh my, God! We can have a double wedding in Spain!”

Dean rolls his head to the side and glares at her—a green post it reminding him to order more copy paper, clinging to his cheek. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

“And you got a thing for the book abuser, so I guess we’re both a little crazy” the girl laughs, snatching the post it off his face just so she can crumple it up and throw it at his head. It bounces of his nose and rolls back onto the desk.

Dean scoffs “I don’t have a—I just noticed that he wasn’t bad to look at is all.”

“ _Mm hm_ ” Charlie hums, not believing him for a second.

“Babe, are you back there?” Dorothy’s voice sings from the front of the library, and soon, the leggy auburn-haired girl is striding up beside Charlie and looping her arm around her waist. “You forgot your phone at my place, so I brought it over.”

She hands the rainbow cased cell over to Charlie and then kisses her on the cheek, and Charlie gives her such big heart-eyes, Dean’s afraid they’ll pop out of her head. “OMG, babe! You’re the greatest! Dean, isn’t she the greatest?” she asks without looking at him, choosing instead to give Dorothy a rather long kiss on the lips.

“Yeah, yeah” Dean grumbles, attempting to drink some more of his coffee, but then he recalls that it’s already gone.

 

He first met Dorothy back at the soccer fundraiser. Charlie had brought her along to the small event to show her off, saying that _that_ might be the only time she’ll get a chance to, since Lawrence isn’t teeming with any other fancy parties for them to attend. Once they were introduced, Dean was pretty quiet, but then he spotted the beautiful old Indian motorcycle that Dorothy had rode in on, and soon enough, they were both geeking out over engines and custom finishes mixed with original parts. Afterwards, he proudly showed off his baby, a 1967 Chevy Impala, and Dorothy was drooling before he even popped the hood—and after that, he had to admit, she was a pretty cool chick. But no matter how cool she is, it doesn’t mean he wants to watch her and Charlie swapping spit right in the middle of his office.

“Can you two get a room—and not _this_ room?” he grumbles, interrupting the two lovebirds’ love session.

“Jeez” Dorothy laughs, “what’s up _his_ ass?”

Charlie giggles, way too hard and then sighs. “Oh, well—Deanie here is fighting the epic battle between mind and penis.”

Dorothy nods thoughtfully, as if _that_ explanation explains everything.

Dean groans once more, and goes back to laying his head on his desk, closing his eyes tightly in the hopes that when he opens them again, Dorothy and Charlie will be gone.

“You see—Dean caught that one guy who was destroying our books. _Remember_ , the jerk I was telling you about with the religious name?”

Dorothy’s mouth opens in awe as she nods again, and Dean opens his eyes just a crack to watch her—grudgingly curious about what she’ll think of all this. Besides, he knows Charlie will tell her about it one way or another.

“Well, Dean staked the place out last night—to try and catch this dude … our very own Detective Stabler over here.” She laughs and then winks at Dean. “Anyway, to everyone’s surprise, he actually did it! He caught the guy in the act of dropping off _another_ ruined book!” she quickly points at the fermented text on the corner of Dean’s desk, like it’s a visual aid for this presentation. “And since he got caught, the guy paid him for not only _that_ book, but all the others, with some money to spare, which was _great_ … but the _real_ surprise in all this is, this book-killing dude is apparently all of Dean’s sexual fantasies rolled into one, and now our once celibate-librarian is hoping to get ten types of nasty with his arch nemesis and renowned literary villain, _Castiel Novak_.”

Dean inhales deeply, wanting nothing more than to protest Charlie’s drastically dramatized tale, but he doesn’t; and soon enough, he’s letting all that air out again, knowing that it’d just be inflating lies.

“Aw, that’s actually really cute!” Dorothy confirms, and Charlie squeezes her in agreement. “But I don’t get what the problem is … is this other guy straight or something?”

Dean snorts, building himself up to speak once again—but just like before, he decides against it.

“Oh, he doesn’t know that. This sexy madman could be straight, or he could be gay—or bi or whatever. He could be an alien from the planet Glornack 7 for all we care … the problem isn’t _that_ though, it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to think what he’s doing to our books is any big deal at all; and Dean just wanted him to feel guilty and apologize, but instead, Novak just brushed it all off and walked away. So, he may be hot, but he also may be a huge dickweed , but something about his dickweedness really got under Dean’s skin, and now he’s torn between love and hate. Between logic and hard dicks – justice and dudes he’d like to kiss.” She sighs and swoons at her own corny poetry. “It’s tragic really.”

“Shakespearean” Dorothy adds.

“Exactly!” Charlie says, obviously impressed and swooning over the fact that her girlfriend has read Shakespeare.

Dean doesn’t remind Charlie that Shakespeare has been  required reading in most schools since the early sixties—he’ll  just let her have her moment, considering out of the two of them, _she’s_ probably the only one lucky enough to have them at all. Lord knows that _his_ love-life, _or lack thereof_ , has been very depressing the last few years.  Out of the three guys he’s dated in that time, not a single one has been anything special. They’ve either had creepy vegetable fantasies, or had no ambition in life whatsoever, or have been so entitled, they’d expect Dean to bend over and wipe their ass if they asked him to. No, he certainly hasn’t been lucky in love, so if Charlie _has_ , he won’t try to dampen it for her.

“The way I see it is—” Dorothy begins, making Dean snap his attention back to the couple standing in the middle of his office, “you could either try to completely forget about this guy based on what you think you know about him, or you could trust your gut instinct and see if there’s even anything there. You’re obviously attracted to him, but you’re a sensible enough person to know that you need to be cautious too,  so I doubt you’re _only_ thinking with your dick … which means that there’s something legitimate catching your attention.” Her dark eyes narrow on Dean’s, but they’re not harsh or daring—they’re simply assured, and it makes Dean want to trust whatever words are next to come out of her mouth. “I think the next time this guy comes in, try to explain to him _why_ you’re really upset with him about all of this, and then see how he responds. If he really is an ass, then I am betting that you won’t find him that hot anymore.”

“I explained all that to him last night though” Dean offers weakly.

“Did you? Did you _really?_ ” Charlie snickers, raising a brow at him because she knows him too well, and talking plainly about his feelings comes about as naturally to him as making love to a woman.

“Um … well … _maybe_ I wasn’t as clear as I could’ve been. I was pissed though!” Dean whines, noting all the smirks and eye rolls that are now tumbling his way. “I _did_ say that it wasn’t right he was messing up my inventory.”

“And that’s _exactly_ how you said it? No cussing him out? No manic flailing?”

 _Damn_. She really does know him too well. “Uh … well …”

“ _Dean_ …”

“Fine! I first tried to punch him in the face, and then I called him a smarmy mouthed titty nugget for fucking up my books!”

Now, both Dorothy and Charlie bust up laughing, and it makes Dean chuckle too—because it _was_ all rather comical now that he’s really thinking about it.

“ _Hmm_ , and he wasn’t _super_ eager to apologize after that rational and tempered explanation of your point of view?” Dorothy says between giggles.

“Shuddup” Dean grumbles, failing to hold back the rest of his humor.

The three of them laugh louder and louder, until their sides hurt and they’re all wiping tears from their eyes, and for the first time in at least a few weeks, Dean isn’t angry anymore.

***

It’s been over a month since the night of his stakeout, and Castiel hasn’t returned any other books—not in the middle of the night or otherwise.

And Charlie says she hasn’t checked anymore books out to him—she’d remember now, considering the guy’s name comes up so much in conversation these days. Yeah, _she’s_  the only one bringing it up, but Dean isn’t really trying to stop her either.

The truth is, he doesn’t mind having this little bit of excitement in his life. There’s some mystery that comes with all this—there’s question and curiosity.

_Will Castiel come back?_

_Is he an asshole?_

_Is he a gay asshole?_

All these thoughts run on constant repeat through Dean’s head; and even though he knows it’s ridiculous for him to be so stuck on some dude he nearly knocked out, and who didn’t seem to give two shits about anything having to do with Dean, it still is kinda fun to have something to even possibly be excited over.

For years now, the only things he’s really thought about are this library and making sure Sammy stays sane enough to get through law school. Everything else has just been the usual day-to-day drag. Yeah, he loves his job, but there’s not really much variety in it, and not that he wants to go seeking some thrill every day or anything … but it would be nice to have someone come into his life and stir things up.

And _Castiel_ is a big ass whisk.

Even when he was just a name on a screen, Dean has to admit—the drama was exciting. Yeah, he was pissed as hell that someone was hurting his precious bound babies, but it was also thrilling to go on a quest to figure out who it was and why.

 _Quest_ …

 _Ugh,_ he really needs to stop letting Charlie rub off on him so much.

_Maybe Castiel can rub off on him …_

Dean clears his throat as the hold music continues pinging over the phone. His mind always wanders when he’s forced to sit on hold for hours, and it really _has_ been hours this time. He hates having to order supplies, because for some reason, telling DEMCO, the main library supply company in the entire United States, exactly what he needs is like trying to flip backwards through a ring of fire. He just needs some freaking book ends for Christ’s sake! Yet, he’s been on hold for twenty minutes since they transferred him to _this_ department, which is actually the seventh department they’ve transferred him to since he first called two hours ago. It’s ridiculous.

And yes, he could order online, but the last two times he did that, they’ve sent him the wrong stuff.

It’s so fucking stupid! And he can’t really go anywhere else because DEMCO has monopolized the market. It should be illegal! They should be charged! They should be—

“Hello, this is Tanya in billing, how can I help you?”

“Billing? I thought they were transferring me to the warehouse” Dean hisses, clenching his fist around the pen in his hand. It’s been poised and ready to write down the order confirmation for well over an hour.

“Oh, I’m sorry sir—I’ll transfer you now.”

“Wait! _No_ —” but before Dean can stop her, cheery-sounding Tanya has already put him on hold again. “Fuck this!” he yells, slamming the phone back onto the receiver. “I can wait for bookends anyway.”

He makes a note on another post it, reminding him that he _still_ needs to order those, and then he sticks it to the edge of his computer, and it instantly gets lost amongst all the other post its reminding him of all the other things that he still needs to get and do. If people knew how stressful running a library could be, they wouldn’t get mad at librarians for being so stingy all the time. If they’re not—shit falls apart.

Dean sighs and then turns away from the rainbow of bright reminders, wanting to take a break and finally come out of his office. It feels like he’s been in there all day—because, _well_ , he has been. He stands up from his chair and stretches, cracking a few vertebrae as he does; and then he heads out the door. But, just as he steps out onto the main floor, he’s surprised to see a familiar dirty old ball cap and scruffy beard standing behind the circulation desk next to Charlie.

“Bobby?” Dean asks, equal parts happy and confused. “What’re ya doin’ here?”

“ _Balls!_ Shut it off! Shut it off!” Bobby hisses, tapping Charlie on the shoulder rapidly as he side eyes Dean walking towards them.

“Shh! Be cool!” Charlie mutters, clacking at the keyboard rapid fire before swiveling around in her seat and plastering on an all-too innocent smile for Dean. “Hi, Dean-a-roonie! How ya doin’ bud?” she chirps, almost choking on her own sugar.

“And you’re tellin’ _me_ to be cool?” Bobby growls, knowing that Dean won’t buy that act for a second.

And he doesn’t. “What are you two doing?”

“Nothin’” Bobby says, shaking his head so hard that his neck waddles.

“Totally normal around here. Nothin’ new” Charlie adds on.

“Good greif” Bobby groans again.

“Yeah. Not buyin’ it.” Dean steps in closer and glares at Charlie hard. She may know him inside and out, but he knows her too—and she has that look in her eye that says she’s itching to talk. “ _Charlie_ …”

“Jeez, Dean! It’s nothing bad okay? I’m just helping your sweet Uncle Bobby find love!” The girl then squeals delightedly before swiveling back to her screen so she can pull up her masterpiece. “Look at this! He’s gonna have all those ladies swooning!”

“Damnit, girlie! The only reason I agreed to let you help me is if you didn’t say a word of it to the boys!” Bobby barks, throwing up his hands immediately afterwards with frustration.

But Charlie knows that the old man is _all_ bark and absolutely _no_ bite. “I didn’t say a word … I said a whole sentence, and I only said it to Dean, not Sam _and_ Dean!” she giggles, pointing at something else on the screen for Dean to look at.

But the only thing Dean can focus on is the picture at the far left of the profile—because even though he knows it’s of his Uncle Bobby, it’s not any version of his Uncle Bobby that _he’s_ ever seen.  The man is _posing;_ standing at an angle to the camera, chin held high, beard trimmed, hair slicked back with gel … _no baseball cap._ He’s not wearing a dirty old overshirt either. Instead, he has on a clean button up shirt and tie, and if Dean isn’t mistaken, the man dyed his hair too. He looks nothing like his grizzled old, salt of the earth uncle he knows and loves, instead—he looks like Bobby’s preppy twin. Someone Dean has never met and frankly, would never _want_ to meet! He likes _his_ version of Bobby. The Bobby with ten years of grime under his nails and a beer bottle permanently glued to his right hand. This dating-profile Bobby is a joke, and Dean can’t help but laugh at him.

“Oh my God!” Dean cackles, leaning in to get a better look. “Oh my God! Is that really you?”

“Yeah, ya idjit! It’s me! So what?” Bobby growls, squaring his shoulders and clenching his jaw on his temper.

“I just … I can’t believe that’s you! You actually _own_ a tie?” Dean is dying now—holding the edge of the counter to keep himself from laughing right down onto the floor.

“I knew I shouldn’t have come here” Bobby moans, yanking on his baseball cap to try and cover his reddening face; but just before he can scurry for the door, Charlie is yelling.

“Dean Henry Winchester!”

Dean’s laughs instantly cease when he hears his middle name, and for a moment, he feels like he’s eight again, listening to his mom yell at him for  using a shovel to throw dog poop into the neighbor’s pool. Their dog was always pooping in his yard though, so Dean felt justified.

“How dare you make fun of your uncle for trying to put himself out there! It’s far more than _you_ can say for yourself! And stalking people and nearly decking them in the face _doesn’t_ count!”

Bobby is the one chuckling now. “ _Heh_ —yeah, I heard about that.”

And now Dean is the one turning red. “Jeez, okay … _sorry_.”

But Charlie isn’t done yet … once she gets going, there isn’t really any stopping her. “Yeah, you better be sorry! Bobby came to me asking for help to set up this profile—he took the initiative! He wasn’t happy with how his life was so _he_ took the steps to change it! He is the hero of his own story, and here you are making fun of him for it? I seriously would expect _you_ of all people to have more respect than that … not just because he’s your _family_ , but also because he’s doing something that you’re far too chicken to do yourself!”

Now Dean feels _small_ and red—beaten down and embarrassed for being such a dick. “I’m sorry, Bobby.”

“S’all good” Bobby mutters, seeming embarrassed too for being so close to this verbal beat down.

“ _Good_ ” Charlie confirms, her eyes darting between the two of them. “Now both of you, go somewhere else so I can work on this in peace. If I’m gonna get your uncle laid, I need _complete silence_.”

Dean and Bobby both make a face, really wishing that the girl hadn’t just put _that_ out there, but what’s done is done. The two men scurry away together, leaving the fired up redhead to her business, but they can still hear here grumbling to herself even halfway across the library.

“That one reminds me so much of your mother sometimes” Bobby whispers, seeming both scared and impressed all at once.

“Yeah” Dean agrees, suddenly feeling a lump sneak into his throat.

 

It’s not the first time he’s thought of it—and he knows that it very well may be the reason Charlie grew on him so quickly … but Charlie and his mom, Mary Winchester could’ve been twins. Not in looks, but in personality.  His mom is the one who taught Dean to love books, because to her—books were magic. They were places and worlds where the word “impossible” didn’t really exist, and Dean found that amazing. She was fearless and affectionate, and she could always tell what he was thinking just by the look on his face. She could be nosey as hell too, and Dean could never keep a secret from her, even when he really wanted to. Mary could always get him to talk, just like Charlie can. She was his best friend in so many ways, so when he was fifteen and got pulled into the councilor’s office at school—only to see a police officer there, ready to tell him that his mom was dead, _he crumbled._

Nothing seemed worth it anymore—nothing except Sam. So Dean did what he could to keep it together for Sam’s sake. His baby brother was only ten when Mary died, and he couldn’t really wrap his mind around it, so Dean had to be the one to help him get through. And their Uncle Bobby was the one to help _Dean_ get through … so as they stand together in the library now, watching the redheaded version of Mary get fed up with all their shit, it’s no surprise that the two of them are welling up a little.

“So, online dating huh?” Dean says, trying to change the subject so he doesn’t end up balling in front of Bobby. He’s done that enough in his life.

Bobby pulls off his cap and scratches at his head nervously, and then replaces it once more. “Uh— _yeah_. Thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Good luck, man. I know it ain’t easy … _uh_ … ya know, putting yourself out there.”

“Nah, it ain’t” Bobby agrees.

They both stand there another minute or two, the deafening silence of the library threatening to swallow them whole before Bobby finally can’t stand it anymore.

“Well, I’ll see ya later” he grunts, quickly taking a long stride in the direction of the door.

“Yup” Dean says, striding in the exact opposite direction—both of them not looking back, making the silent agreement to never talk about any of this again.

***

Charlie cooled down once Dean brought her back a cake pop after he stopped at Starbucks on his lunchbreak.

She smiled and took it happily, probably feeling pretty proud of herself for putting him in his place—as well as creating what she calls “The Holy Grail of Dating Profiles.”

“Your uncle is going to have to bat the ladies away like flies!”

Dean chuckles. “I dunno, that picture is certainly a far cry from the _real_ Bobby. Some old woman is going to swipe right, only to meet up with him and find that he thinks ‘bathing is a weekly thing’ then she’ll go running for the hills!”

Charlie smacks his arm but doesn’t say anything else, she just continues munching on her cake pop and scanning in books.

Dean is standing beside her, putting a thick plastic cover onto one of their new paperbacks—and he looks up the same time she does when the front door chime rings.

Although, where Charlie simply goes back to her work after she sees the man walk in through the sliding doors, Dean stops cold—dropping the book down onto the table with a _thud_.

Charlie turns and looks at him, but he doesn’t meet her eyes. Instead, his are trained solely on the man that’s now walking past the desk and back towards the stacks, barely acknowledging the two of them as he goes. He just gives them the subtlest of nods . Charlie follows Dean’s gaze, and then after another moment, she gasps—standing up tall, almost on her tiptoes so she can watch the stranger disappear around one of the shelves.

“Oh my God! Is that him! Is that Novak?”

Dean wants to say something, but he can’t seem to speak anymore. His vocal chords were severed with the _whoosh_ of that front door.

“It is! Ooo, he _is_ cute! In that rugged, interesting, dreamy sort of way!”

“Shh!” Dean finally manages to hiss.

“He can’t hear me” the girl hisses right back, inching in closer to try and see if she can catch another glimpse.

“Stop it!” Dean growls desperately, really wishing Charlie would stop being so obvious, but he supposes he can’t be surprised, not after all the hype he's made surrounding this guy. Castiel Novak is pretty much a celebrity as far as this library’s concerned. He’s the Chloe Kardashian of the circulation desk.

“Oh, he’s coming back! He’s coming back!” Charlie yips, whacking Dean in the arm over and over, until he’s pretty sure it’s forming a bruise.

“ _Shut up!_ ” he grits, feeling his body turn to stone as the top of Castiel’s head sails down one of the rows and back out into the main walkway. Soon, he’s striding up to the desk with a single book in his hand. He smiles softly at Charlie, and then the smile tightens some when his eyes move over to Dean, proving that _yes,_ he _does_ recognize Dean in the light of day, and _yes_ , he hasn’t forgotten the chaos that happened a month ago.

“Hello, Dean” Castiel offers, but the greeting is clipped and sounds forced.

“Mr. Novak” Dean manages to croak, and Charlie stifles a laugh—rather unsuccessfully too. Dean shoots her a look. “Checking out?” he says, a little more clearly now.

“Yes … and paying a fine. I was planning on returning another book tonight, but I can’t seem to find it. I must have left it out in the woods.”

“The woods?” Dean asks through a clenched jaw, feeling that original rage fill the back of his throat. At least the other books got _returned_ , mutilated and disgusting, yes—but returned none the less. Now, this guy is just altogether  _losing_ his books, and he _still_ doesn’t seem to care at all!

“Yes. It was the book on bird watching that I had checked out. The last I remember, I was in a tree, reading about the Scissor Tailed Fly Catcher, and then ironically enough, one defecated right onto the page I was reading, so I shut the book and set it down on the branch so I could get a closer look at the bird, and that must be where it still is now. I don’t remember climbing down with it. The bird was beautiful though, so the book was helpful in that respect. I wouldn’t have known to look for that type of bird otherwise.”

Charlie is half grinning, half gawking—and Dean is _only_ gawking.

“You left it—filled with bird shit, _in a tree?_ ”  He knows his voice is louder than it should be for the library, but he can’t seem to care right now.

“Yes” Castiel confirms coolly.

“You left it … _filled with bird shit_ … in a God damn _tree?_ ”

Castiel tilts his head to the side, just like he did that first night, acting as if Dean is speaking in tongues. “I already answered that question.”

“ _You left it_ —”

“The cost of the book is $38.99, Mr. Novak” Charlie cuts in, obviously not wanting to listen to Dean be a broken record any longer.

“Very well. Here’s fifty, keep the change” the man says after pulling out that money clip again and putting a single fifty dollar bill down onto the counter. “Now, I’d like to check this out. I know I still have two other books out, but I highly doubt that I will find needle point or oragami as interesting as I had originally thought, so I will return _those_ when I return this one.”

Charlie clears her throat but nods, censoring herself like a pro; but Dean doesn’t seem to be feeling very professional at the moment.

He yanks the book from Castiel’s hand just before Charlie can take it and check it out to him.

“This really _is_ a habit of yours, isn’t it?” Castiel says after a brief moment of dumbfounded silence. “Can’t you ever _ask_ to take something? Must you always be so forceful?”

Dean ignores him while looking at the book that he wants to check out—heart leaping into his throat when he reads the title: “Rock Climbing for Beginners”.

“ _Dean_ ” Charlie scolds under her breath, but Dean ignores her too.

“Oh hell no! _Hell no!_ You’re not checking this out! You’ll end up dropping it off the side of a mountain! “

Castiel’s brows gather together and those pretty blue eyes darken with confusion. “I highly doubt that. I wouldn’t bring the book up the mountain with me. I’d probably read some of it and then leave it at the bottom.”

“Yeah, leave it there and have it never be seen again!” Dean snips. “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re in _Kansas!_ No mountains ‘round here, buddy!” he holds the guide up and shakes it, smiling sarcastically at the annoyingly handsome jerk who lets birds shit and slugs die in his books.

“I am well aware of Kansas’s terrain. That’s why I’m going to Colorado.”

“Colorado? Uh uh! No! Nope! You can’t bring one of _my_ books across state lines!”

Castiel’s mouth opens and then shuts, and then opens once more after he’s had a moment to ponder. “Is that a rule I’m not aware of? This library is awfully strict if it is.”

“It’s not a rule, sir. You have to forgive my friend here. He is _um_ … very protective of our inventory.”

“ _Hm_ , yes. I’ve noticed.”

Dean snorts and then holds the book closely to his chest, wanting to protect it from certain death as long as he possibly can.

But Charlie tries to take it from him. “ _Dean_ … let me have the book!” she huffs, but Dean only grasps it tighter.

“No! He can google the information he needs! He doesn’t have to destroy or lose one of _my_ books just for a little bit of knowledge!”

Castiel sighs, but it’s not one of frustration, no… it almost sounds like— _agreement_. “I _was_ using search engines at first … when I initially began my quest for a hobby, but there was simply too much information out there, and so much of it conflicted with each other. So, I turned to the local library. I thought, since I had been reading from the _Good Book_ for most of my life, other books would offer me better direction than a random person’s _blog_ or what have you.”

Dean tosses Charlie a look that says _“See, I told you he was a religious whackjob”_

And Charlie shoots _one back_  that says _“The only whackjob around here is you!”_

“In any case, may I check out the book, or should I go to the other side of town to east county library?”

Dean panics, not wanting to set loose this book destroying monster on Sandra and Harriot. The librarians at the East Lawrence County Library _are_ kind of like his competition, but in reality, they’re all just trying to protect the books and keep their businesses running. They don’t need to be messing with _this_. Plus, and Dean would never say this out loud—especially now that he’s furious with this dude again ... but if Castiel went over _there_ , then it’s very unlikely he’d ever come by _here_ again, and something about that thought panics Dean all the more. “If the book goes, _I_ go with it!” he yelps, not even really certain of what he had said for a solid five seconds afterwards; and it’s not until he notes the shocked expressions on both Charlie’s and Castiel’s faces that he plays back the words in his head.

_Oh fuck._

“What?” Charlie asks, almost smiling because she probably knows that Dean didn’t really mean to say that, so she’s probably hoping he’ll play it off as a joke.

Castiel only stares at Dean, eyes stern and cold—but eventually, a warmth swills through them and a light smirk tugs at the corner of his lip. “Are you saying, you will be the book’s bodyguard?” he asks, taking one half step closer to the counter, closer to _Dean_ , almost like a challenge for Dean to accept.

And the new closeness makes Dean choke on his words—even though there’s still two feet of countertop between them,  it’s two feet that he could easily reach across to grope the man, just like he did in all his dreams over the last month.

And because those dreams have been replaying in his head, and since Charlie had just given him a super tough lecture about how he’s doing _nothing_ to help his own love life along, and how only just an hour ago, he looked at a picture of his Uncle Bobby, a man he’s admired all his life, lookin’ cleaned up and slicked back, really putting himself out there just so he won’t be alone, and because Castiel is staring at him right now, and also because he seems to be the only one who cares about the safety of these poor, helpless books—because of _all_ that and more, Dean nods. “Yeah. That’s _exactly_ what I’m saying. If you take the book rock climbing, then you’re taking _me_ rock climbing too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay ... ironically enough, the library that I work at kept me so busy that it took forever for me to write the next chapter for my fic about a busy librarian!


	3. Preparedness

* * *

* * *

“Will you excuse us a moment?” Charlie grabs Dean by the arm and drags him into the back storeroom.

He wants to protest, but he knows what this is about, so he doesn’t bother pulling away.

“Dean, have you been huffing book glue?  You can’t go with this dude to Colorado!”

“Why not?” Dean asks, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice, but he’s finally starting to realize what he’s just committed to, and it _is_ absolutely insane.

“Um, well— _for one_ , you don’t know this guy. His next hobby could be making you into a skin suit! And _two_ , it _is_ just a book; and I love them as much as you do, but this is taking that love to an extreme! And we both know, this isn’t even really about the books! It’s about you and this crazy crush of yours, but you’ve been so de-socialized, all locked up in this library twenty-four-seven, that you don’t know how to handle your feelings anymore!” Her face is getting as red as her hair and Dean knows, she’s truly concerned about his mental stability; and to be honest, _so is he._

“I … I guess that is kinda nuts, huh?” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly.

“ _Ya think?_ ”  Charlie yelps. “Now go out there, check out the damn book to the guy and ask for the money up front, considering it’s pretty much _guaranteed_ he won’t bring that book back.”

That plan _is_ more rational … and sensible, and the right thing to do overall. _Dean knows it is_ ; so when he goes back out to the circulation desk, he has every intention of explaining those new terms to Castiel; but as soon as he’s face to face with those chilling blue eyes again, the other man says “I suppose you’re backing out already?” A cocky smirk plays across that angular face as Castiel glares down his nose at Dean. His voice is rugged, his words— _assured_ , and Dean thinks that every cell in that man’s toned body seems to be laughing at him.

Rage ignites Dean’s already inflamed ego and he slams down the book onto the counter. “Hell no! Tell me _where_ and tell me _when_. We’re doing this!”

Charlie groans from somewhere behind him.

***

“So—because you’re full of pride _and_ an idiot, you’re going to Colorado to rock climb with some random stranger?” Sam is leaning forward on Dean’s couch, watching his older brother pack.

“Yup” Dean grunts, knowing that trying to explain the _why_ to Sam is pointless.

“You hate heights, Dean.”

Dean sighs and stops his attempts to fit fourteen pairs of underwear into the small shoulder bag.  “ _I_ won’t actually be rock climbing. I’ll just be at the bottom, protecting the book.”

“You realize that sounds completely nuts, right?”

“Yes! Okay, _yes!_ I know—Charlie and Bobby and _you_ , and even Castiel have all made that abundantly clear. I _am_ crazy! This is stupid and I’m probably gonna regret every damn second I’m out there, but at the same time … I said I was gonna do it, and I’m a man of my word.”

“But you didn’t give that word to _anyone_ but yourself and a freakin’ book, Dean! Your word doesn’t really matter here!”

“It matters to me! And _yeah_ , I suppose this is all just my pride talking, but if I don’t got my pride, what else _do_ I got?”

Sam gets quiet, and Dean goes back to packing his bag. “Dean …” Sam begins after a long moment, and they both know where this is going.

“Sammy, _don’t_ —okay? This really isn’t that big of a deal. _Hell … you’re_ the one always tellin’ me I need to get out more, so that’s what I’m doin’. And, I’m doin’ my job too, and … I guess, in a totally idiotic way, I’m also trying to get a date. You should be proud of me! I’m getting out of the library for once!” It’s a pathetic attempt at justification, but thankfully, Sam understands his brother well enough to play along.

“Dean—I _am_ proud of you. I always will be, that won’t change. I just want you to be careful, and not let anyone push you into doing something you don’t want to do.”

“Like get on a tiny airplane and fly across state lines to the edge of a mountain?”

Sam laughs reluctantly. “Yeah, like that.”

Dean smiles, loving how much is being said between their sentences. “Don’t worry. As long as that plane doesn’t crash, I’ll be fine.” His hands shake after he says it.

“Nah, it won’t crash. It’ll be a quick flight and you’ll be back home before you know it.”

With a nod, Dean shoves one more pair of underwear into the corner of the bag and zips it up.

Sam eyes him suspiciously. “You’ll only be gone a day, right?”

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Afraid you’ll wet yourself again?” Sam is laughing less reluctantly now, just like he did when they were kids, on a plane to Idaho to visit Uncle Bobby back when he still lived up north. They were flying through a storm and the cabin seemed to be constantly shaking. Dean got so scared, he peed himself. The fact that he was eleven at the time only made it _more_ humiliating. Their mother tried to comfort him, waiting for the seatbelt sign to turn off so she could get him to the bathroom to change. Eight year old Sam however, thought the whole damn thing was hilarious and couldn’t stop cracking up, no matter how angry Mary got at him.

 _Now_ , thirty two year old Dean is tackling his brother on the couch. “You’re such a bitch!” he says, laughing too as he hits Sam with a pillow. Soon enough, he has his baby brother’s arm is pinned behind his back, and Dean continues pushing on it until Sammy cries “uncle”.  Dean finally eases up then, grinning victoriously.

Sam calls him a _jerk_ , but he’s smiling too, rubbing his sore wrist as he rights himself.  “Jeez! I was kidding!”

“Uh huh—well, it ain’t funny!” Dean hisses, still happy that he can put Sammy in his place when he needs to. He heads back into his room to grab his toiletry bag, making sure he has his deodorant and toothbrush as he walks once more into the living room.

“Anyway…” Sam continues, still rubbing his wrist, be he reclines into the couch now, “how the hell can this guy afford to up and leave to go rock climbing in the middle of the week? And doesn’t he know that there are rock climbing gyms right here in town? He doesn’t need to travel all the way to Colorado just to get the experience.”

“I guess he already tried those, but he didn’t think they were challenging enough” Dean says casually, still fishing through the tiny bottles of shampoo and mouthwash. “Damnit, where’s my toothpaste?”

“He told you that? I thought you said you hadn’t really talked to him.”

Dean blushes as he finally looks up from the bag. “Uh—yeah, well … Charlie— _um_ , she was asking him questions and I was sorta eavesdropping.”

“Ah” Sam nods, obviously thinking that that makes more sense than Dean being the inquisitive one. “Thank God for Charlie.”

“Heh, _yeah_ ” Dean mutters—but he knows it’s true. Immediately after he dug his own grave with all this, Charlie jumped in and began collecting all the details for him. Dean had since resigned himself to the office once more, but he could hear Castiel’s and her conversation through the thin walls easily enough.

“So you are leaving Tuesday?” she asked.

“Yes, from the Lawrence Municipal airport.”

“Not the Wichita airport?”

“No, my plane is kept at the Municipal airport.”

“ _Your_ plane? So you’re rich?”

Castiel laughed. “I am comfortable.”

“Meaning _rich_.” Charlie’s tone was stiff, _protective_ , and Dean was embarrassed by it at the time, but he’s really appreciative of it now.

Without her inquisition, he’d be flying blind, _quite literally._

She went on to ask Castiel why he needed to _travel_ to rock climb, and he explained that the rock climbing gyms he’s been to were far too easy, and he wanted something that would really test his limits. Castiel also said that he enjoyed the outdoors, so it would be nice to see landscapes that had a bit more variety to them.  Charlie eventually ended their little talk by subtly threatening the man, saying that Dean needed to come back in once piece because “he’s not a book and can’t be replaced or paid off.”

Dean couldn’t see the guy’s reaction to that—he really wishes he could’ve.

Before he left, Castiel wrote down the more specific details on a post it— _a blue one_ , a bit darker than his eyes, and Dean wonders if that was a conscious choice.

  _Probably not._

Most likely, they were just the closest pieces of paper that Charlie could grab.

 

Dean fishes that post it from his pants pocket when Sam isn’t looking, and stares at if for the millionth time. The jagged words are etched into the paper, almost engraved, but the writing itself is neat—trained, like a practiced hand was behind them. They read: “ _Castiel Novak (785) 632-8281, Hanger 29, Lawrence Municipal Airport, Tuesday May 3 rd, 8 am._”

Dean has to admit, it’s the easiest he’s ever gotten a guy’s number; but then again, it didn’t feel easy at all. It was nauseating and stressful, and thinking about being on a tiny plane with this sexy little dumbass is making him feel even _more_ sick. It’s all so unknown, and he can’t just skip ahead a few chapters and find out what’s going to happen.

He’s clueless, and he hates being clueless; yet, he walked into this darkness willingly. Nobody forced him—no one and no thing, except for his own foolish ego.

That shit _always_ gets him into trouble.

From when he was six years old, getting dared to eat gross shit on the playground, to _now_ —allowing some chiseled fuck to drag him onto a plane that very well may fly into the side of a mountain. If he was smarter, he wouldn’t be in this mess.

“So, you must really see something in this guy if you’re doing all this” Sam says, and it startles Dean out of his thoughts.

“Huh? Oh—uh, _maybe_. Dunno. I just …”

“Want a change?”

Dean glances over his shoulder at his brother, realizing how right that actually is. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Good” Sam says, smiling softly at his own hands.

“ _Good?_ ”

His little brother finally raises his eyes and meets Dean’s. “Yeah, man _. It’s good._ If you were going just because you wanted to prove something, or just because you wanted to get laid, it’d be dumb and I’d try to talk you out of it …” Sam sighs before getting up to walk close to Dean’s side and rest his hand on his shoulder, “but it sounds like you’re going because it’s something you really _want_ to do—for _whatever reason_ , and it’s nice to see you putting _your_ wants first for once.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shrugs his brother’s hand off of him, trying to play down the affectionate moment; but Sammy is apparently having none of it. Soon, Dean is being wrapped up in those lanky arms, getting squeezed just a little too tight, until it’s hard for him to breathe.

“I’m proud of you, Dean.”

“Yeah, yeah” Dean wheezes, but he hugs Sam back just as hard. “You’re still a little bitch though.”

It only takes a second before they’re wrestling again.

***

“Hi, I’m Pete. I’ll be your pilot.” The older man holds out his hand to Dean, but Dean is too busy staring at the plane—which looks more like a toy than something that people actually ride in.

“Is _that_ it?” he croaks, walking a little closer to the thin metal can—touching it lightly before yanking his hand away, as if it burned.

“ _Mhm_. That’s her. Top of the line. Mr. Novak did his research.”

Dean’s attention snaps back with that. “Oh, yeah? How many books did he ruin in the process?”

Pete’s brow furrows behind his aviator sunglasses. “What?”

“Never mind” Dean grumbles, turning back to the plane to glare at it warily. “So, this thing is safe?”

Pete is chuckling now. “Oh, yeah. She’s one of the safest ones around! I think there’s only been two documented crashes under _this_ model.”

Dean swallows thickly, knowing with _his_ luck, he’ll be the third.

“Hello, Peter. It’s good to see you again.”

Dean turns around just in time to see Castiel strut up to the pilot, shaking his hand firmly once they’re in front of each other.

“Mr. Novak, it’s good to see you too—but please, ya can call me Pete. After all, this is _what_ —our tenth flight together?”

“Eleventh” Castiel corrects with a stiff smile.

“All the more reason! We’re friends now, so I insist.”

“Alright … _Pete_ ” Castiel says even more stiffly, and Dean thinks that the simple name has never sounded so awkward.

The pilot must think so too, because his expression caves in a bit as soon as he hears it. “Um, well—anyway. The weather is great. Blue skies, low winds. It should be smooth sailing all the way to Colorado Springs.”

“Good, good” Castiel says, eventually twisting to look at Dean, as if he just now noticed him standing there. “And—hello to _you_ , Dean. I trust you found the hanger easily?”

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

“You two old friends?” Pete asks, trying to make small talk, but he has no idea the Pandora’s box he just opened.

“No. Dean and I have only just met, but since he thinks I’m irresponsible and careless, he has chosen to accompany me on this trip.”

“Uh … like, to make sure you don’t hurt yourself while rock climbing?” Pete asks with a nervous laugh, obviously sensing the tension now. The air is thick with it.

Castiel smirks again—like he did back in the library; and once again, it makes Dean’s blood boil. “Oh no, I don’t think Dean cares about _that_ at all. He only seems to care about his books.” Those blue eyes glare, and Dean glares right back. “Speaking of which—” Castiel finally says, “did you bring the book? I was hoping to read it on the plane. I would’ve looked at it last night, but as you know, I wasn’t _allowed_ to take it home.”

“That’s because you’d probably run it down your garbage disposal or some shit” Dean spits, clenching his jaw along with his fists. “But _yeah_ —to answer your question, it’s in my bag.”

“Wonderful!” Castiel spits back with a feigned enthusiasm. “Then, shall we board? We’re wasting daylight.”

“ _After you_ ” Dean grits, stepping aside and stretching out his hands towards the plane.

“Thank you” Castiel returns, all smarmy just like Dean knew he’d be.

_What a fucking titty nugget._

“Right … okay then” Pete utters uncomfortably, and Dean feels a little bad for him; but then again, he gets to go to the cockpit and put all of this drama literally behind him—but Dean will be sitting right beside it for the next hour and a half.

  _It’s gonna be miserable._

It only takes a few minutes for them to board and for Pete to lock everything up. He gives them a few quick safety guiedlines— _emergency exit locations, oxygen mask instructions, where they keep the life jackets_ , even though they won’t be flying over any water—but all of it just sends Dean into a mild panic, something that Castiel doesn’t seem to notice at all as the pilot turns to head towards the front of the plane.

“The book?” Castiel says a second later, pointing towards Dean’s bag with one stern finger. “I’d like to read it now, _that is_ —if you’ll _allow_ me the privilege.”

Dean’s death grip on the armrests keeps him from flipping the man off. But eventually, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes a moment, trying to gather himself enough to get the book—after all, the engine isn’t even running yet.

_There’s no need to freak out._

He slowly exhales and then looks down at the bag on his lap, unclenching his fingers so he can unzip it and pull out the guide. He reaches inside and feels around some, finally finding the corner; but just as he begins to pull it out, a loud roar bursts from the engine, and through the window at the corner of his eye, Dean sees the propellers start spinning on the wing. He convulses, yanking out the book with one fling, inadvertently whipping out all fifteen balled up pairs of underwear with it. “Shit!” he yelps, “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Dean? Are you alright?” Castiel asks, eyes bouncing from one flying piece of fabric to the next; but Dean has his own eyes shut tight, and his heart is beating in his throat, choking out any words he could possible say. “ _Dean?_ ”

Suddenly, a hand is gripping his shoulder. Dean gasps and finally opens his eyes, darting them around anxiously until they come to rest on Castiel.

Those once snarky blues are soft now, and those ever-smirking lips are turned down at the corners, worried and wondering at Dean’s side. “Are you— _afraid_ of flying?” Castiel asks quietly, squeezing Dean’s shoulder a little more, but it’s a touch of reassurance, not accusation.

Dean gulps, but the lump in his throat is still there, so instead of speaking, he nods frantically.

And to his surprise, Castiel nods too. “Peter! Stop the plane!” he shouts, but his eyes are still trained on Dean.

Soon enough, the engine stalls and the pilot is scrambling back into the cabin. “What’s going o—” he stops as soon as he catches a glimpse of Dean anchored to the seat.

Dean’s not sure, but he imagines he’s probably white as a ghost, or green—although he’s shaking too hard to tell if he’s going to puke.

“Open the door so we can get him out of here” Castiel orders, with an authority that would be hot if Dean could really think about it.

“Yes, sir” Pete stammers, immediately turning around to fumble with the latch.

Soon enough, daylight is filtering through the cabin and Castiel is reaching into Dean’s lap—moving over the bag so he can unbuckle his seatbelt. Again, Dean might find all this rather exciting, but all he can think about right now is the tightness of the cabin. _It’s suffocating_ , and he needs to get out of here! Get out before he dies!

“Alright, Dean. Just breathe … _shh_ … breathe. Come on, put your arm around me. That’s it …” Castiel tugs Dean up out of the seat, holding onto his wrist as Dean’s arm loops around his neck. Soon, almost all his weight is hanging on the man’s firm frame, but Castiel doesn’t struggle at all to support him.

Like before— _it’s_ really _hot_ , if only Dean could calm down enough to appreciate it.

Another minute passes and Dean is out on the tarmac, sitting crosslegged and feeling the heat of the blacktop seep into his jeans. It’s not pleasant, but it does calm him down. It grounds him and stabilizes his body, allowing him to finally take in deep, full breaths, which makes the world stop spinning so fast.

“Peter, could you bring him some water?”  Castiel asks quietly, but the authority is still present in his voice.

Pete nods and jogs back into the plane, remerging in a second with a bottle in his hand. He quickly twists the top off and then passes it to Dean.

Dean takes it and takes a few sips; but Castiel shakes his head, pushing at the bottle with his fingertips, tilting it up so Dean is forced to drink it in gulp after gulp. He almost chokes, but the cooling in his chest _does_ feel good, so Dean keeps drinking until the bottle is crackling and empty.

“Good” Castiel confirms, and Dean is suddenly aware of just how close the man is—kneeling on the ground beside him, leaning over him, watchful, worrying, _protective_. “Peter" he finally says, "there won’t be any flight today. Please cancel the travel plans.”

“What?” Dean rasps, blinking rapidly against the sun. “No—no, I’m good.”

With a look that could break glass, Castiel eyes him. “No, _you’re not_. Cancel the flight plan, Peter.”

“Yes, sir” Peter says—and Dean is almost surprised the man didn’t salute while saying it.

A beat passes, and then it’s just the two of them, alone, sitting on the tarmac and staring at one another.

“I—I’m sorry” is all Dean can think to say, because he is—and he’s embarrassed, and he really wishes that none of that just happened, because it is not at all how he saw this day going.

“You can’t help your fears” Castiel says simply, as if this is something that he encounters every day. “All you can do is try to breathe and keep yourself together until it passes.”

Dean’s cheeks get hot, and he blames the blaring sun beating down on them, but really, he knows that _that’s_ not the reason. He nods and finally turns away.

Castiel places his hand on Dean’s shoulder once again and rubs it softly with his thumb. “I will be right back, and then we’ll go. They have a small restaurant inside. We can sit in there for a while.”

Dean nods again but he continues looking at the ground between his crossed legs, suddenly feeling as if he could cry— _he won’t_ obviously, but he knows that he could.

Castiel pulls himself to his feet, using Dean’s shoulder for support, and Dean leans into the touch. Soon, the man is striding back into the plane and Dean watches him go—appreciating the fit of Castiel’s jeans once more, somehow finding it as comforting as the stable ground beneath him. Another minute comes and goes, and then the other man is coming back out of the plane with Dean’s bag over his shoulder, as well as _all_ fifteen pairs of underwear gathered in his arms. “Here are your things—I put the book back into your bag.”

Dean is gawking at him now, the heat in his cheeks— _exploding_ down his neck. He shakily takes the underwear, and then the bag, wishing that he could zip himself inside it and never come out.

“You did understand that we’d only be gone for a day, didn’t you?" Castiel eventually asks with a smile. "You certainly packed a lot of extra undergarments if you did.”

Dean slowly begins pushing all the briefs back into the duffle, one by one, muttering something about “preparedness” as he does.

Castiel, _thankfully_ , doesn’t ask him anything else about it.

***

They ended up at the small bar in the corner of the restaurant that has wrap around windows giving them a panoramic view of all the planes landing and taking off over the corn fields. It’s actually really peaceful—and the fact that they’re the only ones in the place besides the wait staff and the bartender doesn’t hurt either.

“So tell me, why would you agree to go if you are petrified of flying?”

Dean grimaces around the mouth of his beer bottle, but he takes a swig before responding. “I’m not _petrified_ of flying … I’m just, not a fan of heights, or the idea of falling to my death.”

“You turned white as soon as that engine started up” Castiel counters, taking a long sip from his tea glass immediately afterwards. He said it was too early for alcohol, but he didn’t seem to judge Dean any for needing a beer to calm his nerves.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, _okay_ —well, I guess I’m afraid of flying too, ya happy?”

“Not necessarily. I don’t enjoy putting people in situations that scare them so thoroughly. It is not my idea of a good time.”

He takes another swig of his beer, trying to act casual about the whole thing—as if he didn’t just nearly wet himself again on a plane. “Yeah, then _what is_ your idea of a good time?” Dean quickly turns his head in the other direction, wishing he wasn’t so awkward  that he’d try to flirt with the man who just had to drag his ass across an airport.

“Well, I enjoy trying new things, as I’m sure you’ve figured out. I enjoy taking risks and pushing my body to its limits.”

Dean almost chokes with the words “ _pushing_ ” and “ _body_ ”.

“I like seeing all that there is to see, before I lose the chance to see it. I suppose—I just enjoy living.”

It’s a far better answer than Dean is expecting, and thankfully, Castiel took the question innocently enough, so Dean can react genuinely; and he resolves himself to act normal, for what may be the first time this whole day. “That’s admirable, man. I wish I could say the same … but _uh_ , I tend to leave all the adventure in my books. I like the quieter things in life.”

Castiel looks him over, and Dean tries not to notice. “I understand. I suppose I’ve just had so much quiet in my life already, now that I am able to—I want break the silence.”

Dean sets down his bottle and turns towards the other man, taking a deep breath—hoping that he’s coming off as a guy who _isn’t_ extremely turned on by his company. “What do you mean?”

Castiel smiles softly and then looks at his tea glass, wiping the condensation away with his thumb. “It’s nothing, really. My life before was very uneventful. I followed the same routine, I went to the same job, I ate the same meals—every single day. I didn’t even realize I was tired of it until I had the option not to be.”

“What was the option?” Dean is genuinely curious now, caring less and less about how he’s coming off, and more about what Castiel has to say.

A bit of color flushes Castiel’s cheeks, and it sends a little thrill up Dean’s spine. “Oh, _that_ —well you see, my old job was with a software company. We created security programs for various websites. It was monotonous, dry work, and frankly, I was lazy with it. So lazy in fact, that I created a program that could do the work for me. The program automatically filled in code and ran algorithms that I once had to do manually. Well, my manager found out that I was ‘slacking’ as they say, and he reported me. However, instead of firing me for being so lax with my job, the company offered to purchase my program. They offered— _well_ , they offered me more money than I could ever spend, so I sold my program and vowed to do something more with my life, and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last year or so.”

“ _Damn_ ” Dean whispers, surprised by the whole freaking story. He assumed that Castiel just came from money; that his family was rich and therefore, _he_ was rich too. It certainly explained his carelessness with things that didn’t belong to him; but to find out that he actually _earned_ his wealth—well, it makes Dean respect him more.

“What? Do you not believe me?” Castiel asks, still looking at his tea. “I know, it is a rather unbelievable story.”

“Nah, man—I believe you. I’m just … surprised is all.”

Castiel finally looks up at him, seeming truly confused by that. “Surprised?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah—I guess, I just never pegged you as ‘a workin’ man’.”

Castiel cocks his head to the side like a dog again, and Dean can’t help but find it kind of cute now. “Why not?”

Dean chuckles, thankfully, feeling somewhat comfortable at this point— _the beer is probably helping with that_ , so he says what’s on his mind. “I dunno, dude … honestly, my first impression of you wasn’t great. You seemed like an over-privileged dick; so finding out that you were actually a blue collar guy at one point is surprising.”

“Over-privileged dick? I thought you said I was a snotty boob kernel.”

Dean laughs so hard, he spits out his beer all over the bar, and he quickly raises his hand to the bartender with an apology. “Sorry, sorry!” he wheezes, grabbing a couple napkins from the holder to wipe up the mess. He’s still chuckling as he cleans. “ _Dude_ , that’s _so_ not what I called you—but yeah.”

“Well, whatever you called me—it was nonsensical and ridiculous.”

Dean is grinning hard as he peeks back at the other man, and soon finds that Castiel is grinning too. “Yeah, well—how you were returning my books was nonsensical and ridiculous too! Like, seriously man, how did you even manage all that?”

That flush returns to Castiel’s cheeks, but this time, the color is comforting. For once, the man seems a little ashamed of his behavior, and if he had just shown that the first time around, they would’ve never gotten into this situation—but then again, Dean might not have ended up  _here_ , having a drink with a sexy guy, finding out they have more in common than he thought. “My sister always told me that I am an extremely clumsy individual.”

“Dude … clumsy doesn’t even start to explain what you did to most of those books! The slug? The nail? I mean—one was covered entirely in paint!”

Castiel blushes even harder now. “I did not know there was a slug in one of them, but I suppose that could’ve happened with the book I dropped in the swamp. The nail … well, I was testing out my new nail gun. I didn’t realize it was already loaded, but apparently it was. And … the paint … I bumped into the table with all the jars on it, and the book was on the ground beside the table, and I didn’t realize that they were all pouring onto the book until it was floating in a pool of colors. It was actually a very pretty sight, but the book itself was unusable by then.”

“Uh, _yeah_ ” Dean laughs— _amazed_ that he’s laughing about this at all.

“I … I am sorry, though. It was never my intention to ruin your books. I suppose, I didn’t really think of them as _your_ books, or _anyone’s_ books for that matter. They were just _books_ , which to me, are pretty dispensable.”

All of Dean’s humor halts in his throat with that. “Dispensable? Are—are you kidding me?”

Castiel arches his brow and then shrugs. “I was raised thinking the only book that mattered was the bible, and even the dozen copies that we had in our house were bent and tattered. Books were meant to be read and written in and learned from, and when they fell apart, you threw it away and got another one. They were tools, not treasures. I assumed that that’s how a library viewed them as well—as tools to be used for learning.”

At some point during Castiel’s explanation, Dean had leaned forward, sitting so far up in his seat, his and the other man’s knees are almost brushing, but the closeness doesn’t faze him now—he needs to make Castiel understand. “Yes, they can be tools of knowledge—but they’re also respites. They’re escapes for those who can’t afford to just get on a plane a leave when they want to. Library books are the communal gems; they’re little treasures that everyone gets a chance to hold, so they need to be cared for. They need to be respected. Like, I get what you’re saying, and I can see how people might feel that way about books in general, but you have to understand that _my books_ , are actually _everyone’s_ books, and I need to ensure that they last.”

Those blue rings stand out against their stark white backs, and Castiel doesn’t blink or talk for a long moment—he simply gazes at Dean’s face, eyes falling and rising from lip, to brow … dancing from cheek to cheek. Dean watches Castiel watch _him_ , somehow calm under the inspection—actually eager to know what the other man thinks of it all.  “You’re very passionate” Castiel finally says, voice low and smooth, like the ice at the bottom of his glass.

“I can be” Dean whispers back, feeling his heart thump hard against his ribs.

“So, you really _did_ want to protect the book—that is why you got on the plane?”

And Dean can’t be certain … maybe it’s just wishful thinking on his part, but Castiel almost sounds _disappointed_ by that, as if he was hoping Dean had an ulterior motive for throwing himself head first into one of his greatest fears. Of course, he _did_ have ulterior motives, but he isn’t sure if he should admit that to him. “Uh, well … I mean, I _always_ want to protect my books. They’re very important to me.”

Castiel nods. “I see—I mean, I can see that now.” He’s soon sipping his tea again, looking away to the bottles lining the back of the bar. The bartender wanders off into the kitchen and out of sight.

“But …” Dean says quickly, now looking at the bottles too—however, he can see Castiel glancing back at him from the corner of his eye, “I—I can’t say I wasn’t curious.”

The other man suddenly feels closer, his stare— _warmer_. “Curious? Curious about what?”

Dean takes in a shaky breath. He looks down at his beer, and then around the room—everyone else is gone. They're alone.

_If he’s going try, it’s now or never._

“Curious … curious about _you._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, like all my long fics, this story isn't going where I thought it would. I am taking this ride with all of you-- so if you're surprised, so am I. Stay tuned, we'll see what happens next!


	4. Shouldn't Be

* * *

* * *

Charlie’s eyes are squinted when he comes stomping in through the front doors of the library, almost as if she doesn’t believe it’s really him. “Dean? You’re back already?”

He doesn’t answer; he just grumbles something akin to “Don’t worry about it” as he storms past her and into his office.

She tries to follow him, but he slams the door in her face. “Dean!” she yelps, knocking loudly before tilting to the side so she can peer at him through the glass. His office is mostly windows so that he can look out onto the people coming inside— _great_ for managing the library, but crappy for when all he wants is to be left alone.

He glances up at Charlie’s face as she smooshes her nose against the glass to gawk at him.

“What happened? Are you okay?” she says—words slightly muted by the panes.

He still doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t even bother looking at her anymore. He can’t, because he knows that if he does—eventually, she’ll wear him down and he’ll end up telling her _everything_ ; and he’s just not ready for that yet. He’s not ready to do anything but sulk at the moment, so that’s what he does. That’s what he _will_ _do_ until it’s time to close and Charlie packs up to head home.

He will sit at his computer, angrily play a hundred games of solitaire, and think about nothing other than how big of an idiot he is.

***

 _The giggle_ —that’s what keeps replaying in his mind.

Long hair, slender, pink-tipped fingers, and _that damn giggle._

But it wasn’t simply the giggle itself—it was the way Castiel smiled when he heard it. That smile was like a slap in Dean’s face.

 

He had been sitting in his office for well over an hour. Charlie had given up on pounding at the door nearly twenty minutes ago, but he knew that her pause would only be temporary. What he _didn’t_ know however, is just how much his entrance has apparently worried her; because when he looked up now—hearing the chime from the front door sounding, letting him know that someone new was coming in—the last person he was expecting to see, was _Sam_.

“What the hell?” Dean whispers, rising up out of his seat an inch—as if he is somehow mistaken; that the newcomer is actually someone _other_ than his unmistakable baby brother.

As soon as that tall, lanky kid came sauntering inside, Charlie was running up to him, gesturing emphatically and then pointing towards Dean’s office.

Dean’s mouth is hanging open— _he can’t believe Charlie called his little brother!_ And then with wide eyes, he watches Sammy nod at her before lifting his head, turning it slowly to glare at Dean through the window—jaw tight, nostrils flaring. _He knows._

Sammy _always_ knows.

Where Charlie jumps to conclusions and worries, and goes to the fantastical extremes with everything she hears and sees, Sam doesn’t—and he can tell just by the way that Dean is sitting, nothing is _really_ wrong. Nothing _really_ bad happened.

 _No_.

As he glowers at Dean, hold up in his fishbowl of an office—Sam can tell that all Dean is doing right now is pouting like a two year old.

And the more he scowls at him, the more embarrassed and pouty Dean becomes.

Soon enough, Sam steps around Charlie—marching towards the office while pointing at the door, silently commanding Dean to open it.

Dean doesn’t want to, be he follows the instructions—his own shame making it impossible for him to do anything else.

After another second, the door is unlocked and ajar, and his little brother is inside—and Dean is scurrying back to his chair like a guilty dog that just peed on the rug.

“ _Really_ , Dean?”

“She didn’t havta call you” Dean grumbles miserably.

Sam scoffs. “Yeah, you’re right! _She didn’t!_ But since she’s a _normal_ person who has _normal_ reactions to things, she was worried about you!” Sam puts his hands on his hips before twisting around to look at Charlie—who is standing just outside the door, still biting her lip out of concern. He nods at her and then she nods back, pulling the door closed behind him before going once more to her post at the circulation desk. Sam sighs, not yet turning back to his older brother as he begins speaking again. “She knows you really well, Dean—but she doesn’t know you _completely_ , and when you overreact like this, she’s going to take it seriously.”

“I’m not overreacting!” He’s gone into full _two year old-mode_  now, but he doesn’t care. Dean just folds his arms and looks at the dusty corner of his office, avoiding his baby brother’s eyes the best he can.

“Convincing” Sam snips, eventually letting out a breath while grabbing the other office chair from the side table and wheeling it close to Dean’s desk. He sits down with a _thunk_ and it makes everything feel tenser.

Dean peeks at him from the corner of his eye a moment, but then pulls them away again before Sam can catch him.

“Dean? What happened? Did you even make it to the airport? Did you chicken out? Is that what’s going on here? You chickened out and now you’re embarrassed? It’s okay if that’s what happened—I unders—”

“I didn’t chicken out, Sam! I got on the damn plane!” Dean snaps, arms gripping around himself even tighter, trying desperately to hold in everything he doesn’t want to admit.

“ _Okay_ …” Sam says cautiously, obviously trying to keep his cool with all this—something he’s always been much better at than Dean. “So, what then? You got on the plane … and? Did this Novak guy not show?”

“He showed” Dean mumbles.

“Alright. He showed.” Sam takes a moment, most likely pondering all the different scenarios with this little bit of information—and Dean knows, with his baby brother’s gigantic brain, he’ll figure it all out soon enough. “So … if he showed, and _you_ showed—but you’re _here_ now … I’m guessing, the plane never actually took off.”

Dean remains silent, and that answers Sam’s unasked question perfectly.

“So, you never took off” the younger man confirms. “Why? Did you freak out again? _Oh God_ —Dean, you didn’t piss yourself, did you?” Sam’s eyes are suddenly wide and then he’s tilting in his seat, trying to get a glimpse of Dean’s lower half as it hides beneath the desk.

Dean instantly unfolds his arms and slides his chair away, feeling as if he could smack his little brother now. “What? No! For fuck’s sake, Sam! I can control my fucking bladder!”

Sam throws up his hands defensively before sitting up straight once more. “Fine! Fine, fine … I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on with you, since you’re too damn immature to tell me.”

Angrily, Dean’s mouth opens a moment—but then he shuts it again. He knows his will is wearing thin.

“ _Dean_ …”

“He’s straight, Sam! Okay? He’s fuckin’ straight and I didn’t see it until it was right there in front of my face!” Dean pants, suddenly feeling his eyes burn—as if he could cry right now. He clears his throat, determined not to let that happen. Not over _this._

“So you _are_ embarrassed” Sam states calmly, without a hint of judgment—like a therapist across from a couch.

“Fuck— _yeah_ , okay? I’m embarrassed! I hit on the guy, and it actually seemed like he was into it, ya know? But then the bartenders switched shifts and this pretty, doe eyed brunette comes out, looking at Castiel like a he was a pound of chocolate, and …”

“And … then he seemed more into her than you?”

Dean hangs his head, wanting nothing more than to curl up into a tight little ball on the floor and roll out of sight, but instead—he simply nods.

“Are you _sure_ he was into her? Ya know, you could’ve just been reading him wrong, Dean. It wouldn’t be the first time that you’ve done that.”

“She gave him her number and he _took_ it, Sam” Dean hisses, finally letting himself collapse back into his seat, folding into the leather like a hollowed out melon rind.

“Oh” Sam says, and then goes quiet, because it’s obvious that even _he_ can’t see an alternate explanation for that.

But even as obvious as that is, it wasn’t simply the fact that Castiel took the girl’s number that hurt Dean the most—it was _how_ he took it.

She giggled, Castiel smiled.

He even said “thank you.”

That number then quickly disappeared into the pocket of his jeans.

And _Dean_ —well, Dean just slapped a twenty onto the bar and said he was leaving.

 

“You must’ve really been into this guy to be this upset. I’m sorry, Dean.” Again, no judgment. No hints of lectures or accusations of overeating lingered on his brother’s tongue. Instead, Sam was sympathetic and silent, as if he knew that’s exactly what Dean needed. And—he probably did. Like Sam said before, he knows Dean _completely._

Dean nods again, but soon closes his eyes.

Now that the secret was out— and the office is silent, save for the soft pull and push of their breaths, the whole scene begins to replay in Dean’s mind.

How he thought he was finally getting somewhere with Castiel. The way he inched in closer, the way he brushed their elbows together atop the bar—the way Castiel had smiled afterwards.

At the time, Dean thought it was the shy, flirty smile that signaled the start of something new… but then the other bartender came out to start her shift.

She was a petite little thing, _pretty_. Her big, brown eyes were encased in dark lashes—that batted dramatically every time Castiel fell in her sights. Her voice instantly trilled when she asked him if he wanted a refill—and her voice slacked limp after Dean had told her that he would like one too.

Apparently, Dean wasn’t at all her type—or, she could tell that he was gayer than a Broadway cast; so where her eyes would light up for Castiel, they’d become black bottomless pits for Dean.

It pissed him off—what if he and Castiel were on a date? _She didn’t know_ ; but she obviously didn’t care either because she was hitting on the other man every chance she got.

It was an extra giggle or two at first, and then a dramatic flip of her hair—but that quickly turned into her bending down and leaning onto the bar so Castiel could easily peer down into the gapped hollow of her blouse.

And peer, he did.

And then, Castiel had said— _something_ , Dean couldn’t remember what exactly, but whatever it was caused the girl to throw back her head with a laugh, placing her delicate hand onto Castiel’s wrist immediately afterwards, giving it a light squeeze as she told him how funny he was.

And all that would’ve been fine— _annoying_ … _unbelievably_ annoying, but _fine,_ if only Castiel had ignored her; or at least, politely disregarded her. But instead, the guy seemed intrigued by this woman’s obvious mating dance, even flattered!

_He blushed._

_He laughed._

He leaned in just as she did, and the two stared at one another—as if they were the only two left in the bar.

As if Dean had simply stopped existing.

It only took a few more minutes of this for Dean to knock back the rest of his beer. And then—when that girl had pulled a pen from the cup beside the register and wrote down her number onto a napkin, sliding it smoothly across the bar to Castiel a moment later, Dean decided that enough was enough.

He began thinking of excuses of why he had to go—something that wouldn’t cause too much suspicion; that is, if Castiel even cared at this point to be suspicious.

But then he watched as Castiel looked at the number and smiled—folding it carefully after he inspected it so that he could slip it neatly into his back pocket. And just as Dean thought it couldn’t get any worse—those beautiful blue eyes looked across the bar into those just as pretty brown ones, and he said “thank you.”

He said it with such sincerity and weight, it punched Dean square in the jaw.

All the excuses he had been forming, shattered on the floor. All the tact that he had mustered up to leave peacefully, scurried back into the dark corners of himself, and the only thing that was left was his bitter, unadulterated hurt.

So, Dean stood up. He pulled his wallet from his jeans so hard, he nearly ripped the pocket—and then with what was probably far too much force, he got out a twenty dollar bill and punched it into the polished cherrywood of the bar.

Both Castiel and the bartender jumped.

“Dean? What—” Castiel had started to ask, but Dean cut him off before the man could finish.

“I’m leaving!” he barked, returning his wallet to its place and then yanking his duffle bag from where it hung on the back of the barstool.

Soon—he was jetting out the door of the restaurant, stupidly wishing – like some sort of teenage girl in a Hallmark movie, that Castiel would chase after him; but as he stomped up to the side of the impala, her shimmering black paint only showed the reflection of the airport behind him—a vast blue sky, a few clouds, and absolutely no sign of Castiel Novak.

So Dean got into his car and drove away.

***

His small house felt cold when he finally walked inside—the night was filtering through it like a flood, but even as he turned on all the lights, it didn’t warm up. It _couldn’t_ warm up, because _he_ felt too cold to let it.

He knows— _has_ _known_ ever since he was pulling out of the airport’s parking lot, that he’s letting all this affect him way too much. After all, it’s not as if this is the _first_ straight guy Dean has fallen for.

The majority of his time in high school was spent pining after some dude who was too busy chasing everything with boobs to notice that he even existed.

And then there was Francis—who he had met on his first day of Art History. The college class was simple, but Dean failed every quiz because he paid more attention to the soft curve of Francis’s ears and neck than he ever did to the daily lecture. But even then— even when Dean had gotten drunk at some fraternity mixer that Francis had dragged him to, even when Dean ended up plopping down next to Francis on the couch, running a sloppy hand up the man’s thigh, kissing that neck that he so often admired in class, whispering “You’re so hot” over and over again … and even as Francis pulled away, screaming at Dean to _get the fuck off of him._ Even as he stumbled back to his dorm, only to wake up the next morning and realize what he’d done, so embarrassed that he immediately dropped Art History from his schedule … even after _all of that_ , Dean didn’t feel _this_ cold.

_Why?_

Why was any of this getting to him? At least with Francis, there was a friendship first—a period of time where they got to know one another, where Dean’s feelings had some justification for growing into something more; but with _Castiel_ … he barely knows the man! And from what little he _does_ know, the majority pisses him off!

He’s disrespectful of other people’s things.

He’s a careless risk taker … _he’s straight._

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t make any logical sense that Dean could feel _this_ betrayed by someone who he’s only spent a collective hour with; but still, the knife in his heart is there, defying all logic.

“Maybe it’s just been too long” he mutters to himself as he slips out of his clothes so he can take a nice, long, hot shower. That usually does manage to clear his mind some. “Maybe it’s just been too long so I was more desperate for something to happen.”

It _has_ been a long time since he’s been with someone— _anyone. Sure,_  the last few guys he’s dated had all been idiots. In fact, Dean doesn’t think he’s actually  _cared_ for anyone since Francis. Yeah, there are guys he thought were hot, but the attraction always ended there. So maybe that’s why when Castiel came sauntering into his life—all annoying and mysterious, but oddly collected and interesting, Dean felt the pull of something other than just primal desirability.

He wanted to _get to know_ Castiel—in the ways he wanted to know Francis. He wanted to ask him questions and debate things with him. He wanted to challenge his point of view on things and then, _be_ _challenged_ in return. He wanted to feel the other man’s closeness, not just in skin, but in thought. He wanted to feel connected … the way he feels connected with a good book.

_Completely engulfed._

Castiel’s world could be _his_ world, even if it’s just for moments at a time—the small chances he got in a day to crack open his cover and peer inside. It felt exciting, something to look forward to, something to ponder and feel differently about … that is what he was hoping for.

And that is what he lost the moment Castiel said “thank you” to that beautiful bartender.

Just like he had over a dozen times prior—Castiel had destroyed one of Dean’s beloved stories; but much worse than before, this one existed solely inside of Dean’s mind.

And standing here now … naked, alone, steaming water beating his skin raw, Dean wonders why the hell he’s still surprised.

Castiel has been showing him who he was this whole time … Dean just didn’t bother really reading him until now.

***

It was past nine in the morning and Dean was still in bed.

He had texted Charlie around six, telling her that he wouldn’t be in today. He also added that she shouldn’t be worried; he just needed the day to take his mind off of things.

She said she understood and that she hoped he’d feel better soon, and he thanked her and said that he would be, even though he knew it was a lie.

If he really wanted to get his mind off of things, he would’ve gone into work and tackled the long list of tasks that desperately needed to get done.

If he wanted to get his mind off of things, he’d bury himself in the stacks and make Dewey proud—ensuring that every single decimal was in order.

But he honestly doesn’t want to get his mind off of things—like any masochist, he wants to stir himself into the pain, set the regret on high and watch himself boil into a thick, pitiful soup.

So, that is what he’s doing—allowing all the giggles and hurt, all the pairs of underwear and moments of panic, all those wasted words and that damn napkin—all of it to bubble up in his mind until it’s boiling over. Until all he wants to do is punch the bed and scream into a pillow.

So that’s why, when his phone rings—he _does_ scream, shouting “What do ya want?” way too loudly into the receiver, not caring for one second who it might be on the other end.

“Jeez—calm down” Charlie blurts in response, sounding both annoyed and frightened all at once.

Dean feels guilt instantly well up around everything else in his brain—adding a nice tangy flavor to this already awful stew. “Sorry. I just— _sorry_.”

“It’s fine” she says, but now Dean is noticing just how tight her voice is, almost as if she’s trying to whisper.

“What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, sitting up in bed, worried that something happened at the library, and he’s starting to regret his choice to stay home today. 

“Um” Charlie begins, still retrained, still edged—and it’s making Dean even more nervous. “Well …”

“ _Charlie_ , what is it?” Dean commands with a yelp, terrified now of what she’s about to say.

The girl mumbles something but Dean can’t make it out.

“What?” he asks, soon—looking around his room for his closest pair of pants, just in case he needs to pull them on and leave in a hurry.

Charlie sighs but then, she finally speaks up. “ _Castiel_ is here.”

Dean nearly drops the phone. “He … he is?”

“Yeah—he uh … he wanted to talk to you.”

Dean’s throat closes and he coughs, trying not to choke on the mounds of disbelief now filling him up. “Why?” he eventually strangles out.

“Well …” Charlie starts again, killing Dean with her hesitation.

 _He probably wants to know why I left the bar yesterday, or maybe he’s trying to be nice and check in on me. Or maybe he wants to apologize. Then again,  what does he really have to apologize for?_ All the possibilities run through his mind, each one seeming less likely than the last, because honestly, no part of him _ever_ thought Castiel would want to talk to him again.

“He’s _um_ … he’s checking out another book” Charlie finally says, and it causes Dean’s face to twist in on itself.

“ _Okay?_ ” he says, unsure of how else to respond.

The girl on the other end of the line sighs, as if explaining all this is painfully exhausting for her. “It’s a book on dirt biking.”

Dean stares dumbly across the room, mind as blank as the wall—unsure of what _that_ has to do with anything.

Eventually Charlie’s voice falls even quieter, and he can just picture her tucking herself into the corner behind the desk, trying desperately to keep Castiel from listening in on their conversation. “He said …” she hisses, low and fast, making Dean push the phone into his ear just so he can hear her, “he said that he’s going to go dirt biking, and he wants _you_ to come with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know ... this is a short chapter. Sorry, but it had to be. Something is better than nothing though, right?
> 
> Heh ... heh ... *tugs at collar*


	5. Dusty Fields

* * *

* * *

_Why is he here?_

_Why the hell is he here?_

Dean looks around—the past couple of days are a blur, seeming almost like a dream, because the last thing he _clearly_ remembers was sitting in his bedroom, listening to Charlie explain to him over the phone that _Castiel freaking Novak_ wanted to “hang out again.”

Did Dean object?

_He thought he did._

_Yeah_ — _he totally did!_

Dean remembers now. He said “hell no!”  He didn’t want to set himself up for even more misery! _Uh uh! Not gonna happen! No way!_

But … if he did say all _that_ , then why is he sitting out here on a dirt bike in the middle of a dusty field, strapping on a helmet?

_What happened? How did it happen? Why the fuck did this happen?_

“Are you ready, Dean?”

Castiel’s voice mixes in with the rumble of the red and black dirt bike he’s sitting on, and Dean looks over just in time to see the man’s face before it disappears beneath a helmet.  “Uh …”

“Don’t be nervous! Remember what the book said … lean into the turns and lay off the clutch!” Suddenly, with a loud rev and a hiss of the tailpipe, Castiel is off … speeding down the dirt path like the Road Runner, and Dean is left behind, coughing in a cloud of dust—as stupefied and pathetic as Mr. Wile E. Coyote himself.

_Seriously though … how the hell did this happen?_

***

“Everyone wants more friends” Charlie had said when she came over after their call about Castiel’s spontaneous invitation.

“ _I don’t_. I got you and Sammy. That’s all I need.”

The redhead glowered at him over her slice of pizza. She had brought it with her, along with a case of beer—knowing that Dean’s sanity is tightly intertwined with his oral fixations. “Did you hear how sad that sounded? Or are you just so delusional now, you can’t see that _that’s_ the problem?”

Dean shoved the last piece of his third slice into his mouth before reaching for another. “I don’t want to be _besties_ with some dude that I also want to bang, Charlie.  That gets real complicated, real quick. Trust me— _I know_ ” Dean mumbled with his mouth full, and then avoided the girl’s eyes, hoping she couldn’t see the heartache and embarrassment that he still feels over Francis.

“ _I_ know too! _What?_ You don’t think I’ve been there? Hanging out with a girl, having her invite me over, trying on clothes in front of me, and then when I finally get the lady balls to tell her how I feel, she gets super awkward and ends the friendship! Yeah, I’ve done it … countless times.” Charlie blinked away a thin line of tears, and Dean frowned at her, feeling sorry but too anxious to say so. “But if I didn’t try, I would’ve never dated _anyone_. Plus, some of the best friendships I’ve ever had withstood those awkward moments. It hurt, but I learned to move past those feelings and cherish the connections that were _mutual_. Those connections are _so_ important, even if they hurt sometimes.”

“So— _that’s_ why you told Castiel I’d go with him?” he asked—and he had meant to say it with a laugh, but it came out as more of a growl, and that made Charlie glare at him harder.

“Uh—yeah! Because _I_ can’t be the _only_ person you talk to about this crap, Dean! You need other personalities in your life! You need people to broaden your world views and pull you out of your tiny, little box; and _this guy_ … he’s yanking you out with crane! _Yeah_ , he may be a bit of an ass, but like … maybe that’s what you need.”

“I _always_ need some ass” Dean snipped, straight faced and serious—but it was just enough to break the tension.

Charlie chuckled and threw a piece of pepperoni at him, and he grinned, thankful that he at least has _one_ friend like her.

***

The engine stalls beneath him and he looks down at the gauges—range of motion, limited by the thick pads and bulky helmet that he’s wearing; but his mind is too occupied with the last few days for him to really worry about the bike.

 _Yeah_ —Charlie had agreed on his behalf to do this with Castiel … in spite of all Dean’s protests, and _yeah_ , she’d finally convinced him to go ahead with it, but beyond that—he’s still at a loss of the specifics.

_Did Castiel text him? Or did he text Castiel?_

He knows that a couple of texts were exchanged. Charlie had given the guy Dean’s number—but, is that how he knew where and when to meet him?

_Maybe?_

_This is so dumb!_ It’s dumb that he’s drawing nothing but blanks right now—and the longer he sits here, the more likely it is that Castiel will notice something is up (if he hasn’t already) and come back to ask Dean what’s wrong.

But he can’t move—too many things are rushing through his head.

The last couple of days.

This morning.

Meeting Castiel at the rental place _._

_Did Dean agree to pay for this dirt bike rental? How much did Castiel say this cost again?_

_Shit_.

He may not have the money for this.

_What the hell did Charlie get him into?_

***

After they picked up the trailer with the two bikes and hitched it to Castiel’s old brown truck—something that Dean was surprised to see the man driving, considering he’s rich off his ass, Castiel suggested that they grab something to eat before they got out to the field.

“It may not be wise to eat beforehand, but we can make it something light.”

Dean nodded—the only response he seemed capable of since he pulled up to the bike shop and saw Castiel leaning against a post outside—all relaxed and toned and tan.

“You sure?” the other man asked.

Dean quickly nodded again and then proceeded to follow the guy to a deli down the street.

Soon enough, they were both scooting into a booth and ordering—a club sandwich for Castiel and a bacon cheeseburger for Dean.

“Alright, so …” Castiel began as he pulled out the library book from the backpack he brought. “According to this, we need to make sure our bodies are positioned right. We need to lean forward as we ride, with our heads over the handlebars. We shouldn’t sit with our backs straight, because that could damage the spine.” After a second of thought, Castiel nodded to himself, still looking at the book—and Dean watched him read. “That makes sense. Less impact if the spine is curved.”

“Hm” Dean finally offered—barely a sound, but it seemed to be enough to keep the other man focused on his studies and not on the fact that Dean was practically a zombie sitting across from him.

“And this also says that riding is less about _speed_ and more about technique. You want to be in control of the bike well enough to know _when_ to go fast.”

“Hm” Dean said again.

“ _Don’t over use the clutch … don’t try to save your brakes_ … l _ean into the turns_ … “ Castiel grimaced at that and then smirked. “Oh well, _that_ might be hard to get used to, but we can try it. I suppose that’s the ‘technique’ they were talking about before.”

Dean went back to nodding, fading in and out of his haze of anxiety and nerves, wishing more than anything he was back at the library, nestled comfortably between his safe stacks of books.

With the returning silence, Castiel looked up at him and started to say something else, but that was also when the waitress decided to appear with their food; and Dean was more than happy to fill the quiet with chews and _gulps_ , and the other man seemed to resign himself to do the same, looking over the book some more as he munched on his fries and muttered to himself.

He looked absolutely adorable as he mouthed every word and leaned in to observe every picture; and a few times, he even lifted his thumb to his mouth and sucked off the grains of salt that were clinging to his skin.

And Dean tried desperately not to choke on his burger as he stared at him, while also fighting the urge to get up and run away again.

_But it would be so easy to … it would so fucking easy to run._

***

The memories of the awkward morning swirl in his mind like the little dust devils Castiel is creating as he zips around the field. So far, he’s just been going back and forth in long, wobbly zigzags, seeming like he’s trying to get a feel for the machine beneath him—so he’s avoided the mounds that have been specifically created for these kinds of activities; but suddenly, his engine revs and it makes Dean look up—just in time to see Castiel turn hard and barrel straight towards one of the largest mounds in the center of the field.

“Oh no” Dean whispers—watching the man let off the gas just as he starts up the incline.

He can’t remember if he mentioned it or not (probably not because he’s hardly said a word to Castiel since he met him at the bike rental place), but Dean _has_ ridden dirt bikes before—quite a lot actually. Their neighbors when he was still in middle school had several bikes, and the kids that lived there would invite him and Sam out to ride in the back fields all the time. They would make ramps and do stupid stunts, and nearly break their necks almost every weekend; and it was some of the most fun Dean can remember having as a kid.

_The speed._

_The rush._

It’s why he loves driving now—it’s forceful and freeing.

But, with all the times that he spent riding with his neighbors, he learned a thing or two—and one of the major rules with dirt bikes is to _not_ chicken out with your speed when you’re going off a jump.

He watches with a knot in his stomach as Castiel slows down, nearly to a crawl just as he comes off the edge of the mound; and since his momentum is gone, the heavy front end of the bike instantly dips forward, making the man take a nosedive straight into the ground below. The front tire bounces against a rock and it launches Castiel into the air, flipping him over himself hard before planting him flat onto his back in the dirt next to the still-whirring  bike.

“Shit!” Dean yelps, hopping upwards to kick start his own bike—quickly revving up the engine and shifting through the gears so he can race over to the other man’s side. “Are you okay?” he hollers as he pulls up next to him, but Castiel doesn’t answer, he just groans loudly and shudders atop the gravel.

Dean stalls out the engine again and then dismounts—pulling off his helmet and chucking it to the side. “Hold still—let me look at ya” he says, plopping to his knees right next to Castiel’s head.

“I think—” Castiel begins with a cough, muffled by his bulky helmet “I think—I’m okay—just the w—wind was—knocked out of me.” He starts to lift himself but Dean presses his palms to his shoulders, keeping Cas from moving.

“It won’t hurt to lie here for a minute—make sure you’re not dizzy or busted up.”

Those blue eyes flick to him—slightly watery, but still just as bright as ever. “Okay” he says with a heavy breath; and then he waits, watching intently as Dean looks him over.

“I think you’re alright” Dean finally says, after scanning the other man, seeing if anything seemed out of place or injured. He’s watched Sammy take enough spills on these things to know the difference between _real damage_ and just the initial shock of a fall.  “You want to sit up now?”

Castiel nods stiffly and Dean reaches out his hand to him. He takes it, and soon enough, he’s upright again—peeling off his helmet and drinking in the fresh air. “That was … _not_ very fun.”

Dean chuckles, realizing a moment later that their hands are still clasped, so he quickly pulls it away and clears his throat. “Uh— _yeah_ , it never is. I’ve taken enough headers off these things to know that it never gets better.”

Castiel huffs in agreement, but then he twists his neck around, flinching in pain as he glances back at Dean—one brow arched like a question mark. “ _Wait?_ Have you done this before?”

Dean bites his lip and then shrugs, but eventually bobs his head once to confirm the guy’s suspicions.

“Wha—why didn’t you say anything?” Castiel asks, seeming more annoyed now than anything. “I probably sounded like a complete fool—reading all these tips from a book, when I could’ve just been asking _you._ ” His cheeks tinge and then hollow, and after a second, he looks towards the dirt between his boots and kicks at it. “I have no idea what I’m doing—and it’s obvious.”

Now Dean feels bad. It’s not like he was purposely keeping anything from the guy, he was just too wrapped up in his own thoughts to really pay attention to what Castiel was saying.

When they first went to rent the bikes, Dean had heard him chatting with the rental guy, asking him a bunch of questions about gears and brakes and what not, but at no point did Dean actually _listen_ to what was being said, and if he had … maybe he could’ve contributed something to keep Castiel from nearly killing himself just now. “Sorry, man—I _uh_ —I should’ve mentioned that I’ve done this before. I’ve just been—”

“Distracted? _Yes_ , I could tell.” Castiel huffs, and then he finally looks back at Dean before rolling to his side so he can pull himself to his feet. Dean tries to help, but Castiel gently shrugs him away. “I know that you don't want to be here, Dean ... that much is apparent. You didn't have to come along. You could have told me no, and I would've understood. I of course, would like to be friends with you, but I am certainly not going to force a friendship with someone who doesn’t want to be around me.”

Dean stares at the back of Castiel’s head, noting the way his shoulders slump in spite of the thick pads that are lying across them. “That’s not it, man. I mean, I wasn’t _trying_ to—” Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck, eventually looking up to the long stretch of blue sky, wishing that he knew what to say or how to explain this.

Castiel holds up a hand, motioning for Dean to stop. “It’s alright. I should’ve known that you would not be interested in coming out with me again, especially with how you left the bar the other day.” He takes a few steps towards his toppled bike and then puts his hands on his hips. “I told myself that perhaps you just weren’t feeling well, but I _knew_ that that wasn’t it.”

“Dude—Castiel, c’mon” Dean mutters, walking a little closer to the other man, but he twists so his back is facing Dean no matter how close he gets to him.

“It’s alright, Dean. I don’t normally get along with people, especially men my own age **—** so I was overly excited. Most of the time, my peers find me strange, and they avoid me. And because of that, it is very difficult for me to make friends; therefore, when you and I could converse so easily at the bar, I became excited by the idea that you might be different. But that’s not your problem, it’s mine. So, you can go. Don’t worry about the bikes. I will take care of them.”

_Jesus … is this what he sounds like?_

Dean has given this same exact speech to Sam and Charlie numerous times— every time one of his relationships failed (both romantic and non) thinking he was _convincing_ them of something ... convincing them that he wasn't worth the time,  and that it was okay that he wasn't. No wonder Charlie pushed him into all this … it sounds so pathetic, and so unnecessary, especially since neither he or Cas has done anything _truly_ wrong here. “Castiel—that’s not it, okay?”

Castiel shrugs but even still— he doesn’t turn around.

Dean sighs, knowing that the only way to get through to this man is by coming clean. He needs to be honest,  tell him the reason why things have ended up this way, and it's not because of anything Castiel is saying now; so Dean does so—before he has a chance to lose his nerve. “The truth is—I’m gay, alright? And when we were at the bar, I got the sense … _well_ … I thought I was getting some vibes from you, and then that bartender came out and was practically mounting you on top of the coasters, and ya know—you took her number … so, I was embarrassed. I was embarrassed that I was hitting on a straight guy, and I was embarrassed that you were completely oblivious to it, so I bolted, because I’m totally chicken shit like that.”

Castiel slowly begins to turn, and soon enough—those blues are large and daring to swallow Dean up; but Dean continues on, figuring that since he’s finally at speed, the worst thing he can do now is let off the throttle and nose dive.

“Honestly, I was surprised as all hell that you wanted to hang out again—and since I was so fucking embarrassed before, _yeah_ —I didn’t want to come. But Charlie … the girl at the library, she convinced me that I should try to hang out with you anyway, even if dating was off the table; but I guess I’ve been doing a shitty job of _trying_ here, and I’m sorry for that. So, seriously, it’s not _you_. It’s all _my_ big gay issues, but it’s _not_ you, okay?”

Castiel’s head bobs once and then he looks down at the ground between them, yet he doesn’t say a word in response; and soon, the silence begins to prick at Dean’s neck like a mosquito.

“I mean—you’re still the smarmy mouthed titty nugget that fucked up my books, but other than _that_ —I think you’re a pretty cool dude.”

And there it was— _a smile._ A small one, but one none the less, and it quirked up the corner of Castiel’s mouth just enough to make Dean sigh with relief.

“So—Castiel, do you forgive me?”

Castiel peeks up at him before allowing his smile to grow, and finally— he nods. “Yes, but only if you call me, _Cas_. The people close to me call me Cas.”

Dean grins, feeling like the warmth of the sun is finally sinking through to his skin. “ _Cas_ —yeah, I can do that.”

They both stand there a moment more—smiling and staring at one another, getting comfortable with the idea of them both being in each other’s space; and then Castiel takes a deep breath—allowing his feet to inch him closer and closer to Dean.

“You’re wrong though.”

Dean’s grin falters, and he tilts back as Castiel draws nearer, searching the other man’s face for some sort of explanation; but all he gets is an even brighter smile.

“When you said I was straight—you were wrong.”

All the blood in Dean’s body halts mid flow and then plummets to his feet, leaving him light headed and dizzy. He tries to keep himself upright as Castiel moves in more—almost closing the small gap between their bodies. “But—but—the bartender?” Dean asks breathlessly, nothing but a garbled mess in knee pads and palm sweat now.

“She was beautiful” Castiel confirms, eyes darting to Dean’s lips just before he licks his own. “I met with her that same evening. We talked, we ate, I took her back to her apartment— _almost_ kissed her, but then I stopped. I knew deep down that I didn’t want things to become that intimate.”

And now Dean is truly confused, because with Cas’s words and his increasing closeness—Dean’s brain is functioning on only a few synapses. The rest have temporarily shut down. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I’m bisexual, Dean.”

“O— _oh_.” Dean nods, but is still drawing a blank as to what all this means—and thankfully, Cas can apparently see that.

Those blue eyes soften just as a softer touch grazes the side of Dean’s hand. “I’m bisexual, and I didn’t want to be intimate with that woman because … I had _someone else_ on my mind. Someone who was most likely not interested in me at all, and who probably never wanted to see me walk into his library again, but I simply _could not stop_ thinking about him.”

“Me?” Dean eventually manages, shaky and hopeful, and practically on the verge of vomiting.

Castiel laughs. “Yes, Dean. _You_.” He brushes the side of Dean’s hand once more before gently taking it into his own. “And although I knew there was no chance that you'd ever be interested in me— I still wanted to see you one more time, because I thought that maybe— _maybe_ we could at least be friends. Plus, I'm very stubborn and like to get my way— it drove my siblings insane.”

The humor glides over Dean's head like the clouds across the flat sky, but he can't really focus enough to care right now. “Not friends” he grunts suddenly, shaking his head back and forth like an idiot, showcasing the mental capacity of a caveman.

However, it's enough to make Castiel’s seem hopeful too— by the way he squeezes Dean’s fingers between his and then holds a large breath in his chest. _“Oh_ ... does that mean ... _do you_ …" he swallows thickly and then looks away, seeming rather nervous to ask what he wants to ask, "Do you want more than that, Dean?”

And Dean's not sure what he did after those words were spoken—he’s not sure if he nodded or said _yes_ , or if he managed to say anything at all—but _whatever_ he did, it resulted in Castiel wrapping one hand around the back of his neck to pull Dean in for a kiss, so for the first time in a long time, Dean feels like he actually did something right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I hope this wasn't stupid.


	6. Lips

* * *

* * *

“So, how does it work?” Dean asks while slurping a shake.

 

They had just returned the dirt bikes to the rental shop, so more food seemed like the obvious next step.

 

Cas pauses just as he's about to put another fry into his mouth. “How do you mean?”

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat before finally setting the shake back down on the bar. They stopped at a little retro diner, which was packed, so the only place they could find to sit was at the front counter, side by side atop two vinyl stools. “The whole— _bi_ thing” he finally says in a lowered voice. “How does it work?”

Castiel pinches his brows together a moment but then smirks, as if he’s walking into a very familiar conversation. “ _Dean_ … bisexuality works just the same as homosexuality or heterosexuality, or any other sexuality I’m sure. If I find a person that I think is interesting or appealing in some way, then I approach them. Why would the status of their genitalia matter?”

Dean shrugs, because—for _him_ , that’s _always_ mattered. He likes _one_ _particular_ _thing_ … very much. _Oh boy! Does he love that thing!_ So … when _that thing_ isn’t there, the love isn’t there. “Yeah, I guess I get it” he lies.

“But—” Castiel continues, as if he’d never really stopped talking, “if you’re asking because you’re worried that I might leave to mount the very next woman I see, then please understand that me liking both males and females does not turn me into some deranged animal that cannot control my impulses.”

His cheeks are now as red as his strawberry shake, so Dean clears his throat and quickly looks away. He didn’t realize that that was _really_ why he was asking, not until Castiel brought it up, but he’s far too prideful to admit it now. “Yeah—yeah, man. Of course. Duh!”

With a chuckle, Castiel eats another fry. “Dean …” he starts again once he swallows, “you are not the first gay man that I’ve dated; and straight women are worried about the exact same thing. It makes sense that you’d have questions if this type of situation is unfamiliar to you. It’s normal. And in truth, I’d much prefer you ask me directly in order to express your concerns, rather than staying quiet and letting those questions consume you.”

With a nod, Dean pokes around at his plate—he’s not feeling very hungry anymore. His simple question, or, _what he thought_ was a simple question, just took a very serious turn; and by the way Cas is addressing it, makes it seem like they’ve been together for a lot longer than just two hours.

_Wait … are they together?_

_No_. They just kissed and held hands for like a _minute_.

_But Cas did say they were dating ...kinda._

_So, does that mean they’ve exclusively dating?_

Dean should ask … he _should_ ask because just like Castiel said a literal second ago, if he doesn’t, these questions will swallow him whole.

“So, do you want to ask me anything else?”

Dean freezes, wondering if this handsome dude sitting next to him is some kind of mind reader. “Um— _no_. I’m good.” _Damn._ There’s that pride again.

Castiel lets out a deep breath, making it seem as if he doesn’t believe him in the slightest, so Dean lets out a sigh as well, realizing that he’s only a few hours in, and he’s already fucking up this maybe-relationship.

_Great._

_World record time for Dean Winchester!_

***

The lock to the library fights against his key, but with a jiggle and a slight push, he manages to turn it.

The alarm inside hisses, warning him that he only has a minute to punch in the code before it goes off.  But it beeps happily once he’s entered his four number sequence— _his mom’s birthday_ , and now Dean is free to turn around and make sure that the door is securely locked behind him.

It’s late. The library had been closed for hours and Dean almost feels like he’s trespassing for being here. He’s not sure why—it is _his_ library after all.

Well, _technically_ , it’s the state’s library but as long as he keeps the place above water, the state doesn’t really care about it much. So, Dean considers it _his_.

But even though every inch of tile and every stretch of popcorn ceiling is familiar to him, he feels like there’s a new air of mystery to this place. He feels like he needs to creep in slowly, taking every step on tipped toes before falling carefully to his heels again—if he comes down too hard, if he makes even the _slightest_ sound, someone, somewhere will somehow hear him and catch him doing what he’s about to do.

_It’s ridiculous._

He knows it is.

And if he’s being honest, he could probably trip the alarm and smash this place to the ground with his bare hands before the police ever decided to show up. The cops in this town aren’t very eager to do much of anything for anyone—especially in the middle of the night, and _especially_ for the local library.

There was one time when Dean was still a clerk, that he arrived in the morning to find some graffiti sprayed along the outside of the building, just above the frame of the drop box. It wasn’t anything major—just some dumb kid’s wannabe gang tag; but when Dean reported it and offered the cops the security footage of the culprit, they basically told him to forget about it. They didn’t want to waste their time on something so minor.

And yeah, it _was_ minor—but Dean thought they could have placated him, at least a little bit before coming to that conclusion.

In any event, that one situation soured his opinion of the police in this town; but thankfully, this town is so quiet most of the time, his need for the authorities is always slim to none.

 

With a deep breath and a quick shake to loosen his muscles, he continues on—trying to feel a bit more at ease, but as he approaches the stacks of books, his muscles tense right up again.

The ranges of numbers stare back at him—unmoving and full of question, asking which row he will choose to travel down tonight. Although, if they could read his mind, they’d already know where he’s headed; because Dean is about to do what he always does when he’s confused or concerned about something … he’s going to look it up.

He passes the 100’s and scoffs, and then the 300’s and scoffs again. It’s become habit now—because the first thing he changed when he took over this place, was the shelf that he’s walking towards now.

It was a point of contention within the library community—a heavy source of drama, if you can believe it possible; and although most drama, Dean adamantly avoids, _this_ bit he tackled head on. He wrote letters and signed petitions, and even went to Washington DC a few years back to attend a discussion on the topic.

Because according to the powers that be, within all traditional libraries, sexuality and gender identity was to be ranged in the early hundreds of the sytem, listed alongside _mental disorders_ and _societal perversions_. It has been that way since the early forties when Dewey Decimal was instated.

In _Dean’s_ library however, gender identity and sexuality has a new home, and its very own section, completely devoid of any accusatory numbers or governmental placement structures.

Instead, the labels that those texts possess have the heading “LGBTQ+” and then the first three letters of the author’s last name, aligned alphabetically.

Charlie helped relabel every single book and set up the new shelving herself—enthusiastically throwing away all the old labels like she was a star in the NBA.

It was a small victory, but a victory none the less for this tiny Kansas town, and it was solely due to Dean and the new liberal policies he implemented when he took this position.

The rest of the country did try to follow suit however; because—to their credit, the Dewey Decimal Editorial Committee did switch some things around after all LQBTQ+ protests; but in Dean’s opinion, the movement into the thousandths’ place instead of the hundredths’ within the social sciences didn’t seem like a big enough leap; because still just a few books back, those scary titles like “Bestiality” and “Pedophilia” lingered, as if who _he is_ as a person somehow evolved from them. As if, were he to be put into a _fight or flight_ situation, he’d somehow dumb down into the depraved psychopath that so many bible-thumpers believe him to be.

 _It’s disgusting and wrong and_ … Dean stops dead in his tracks, suddenly realizing that those sort of hasty generalizations are _exactly_ what Castiel was talking about at the diner; and here _he_ is, paranoid that Cas’s sexuality will end up making him less of person if a pretty girl walks by.

Dean groans before leaning against the shelf, wondering why the hell he’s acting like this?

_So? Castiel is bi. So? He likes both men and women._

Would Dean be any less anxious if the man were strictly gay? Wouldn’t he be _just_ as worried that Castiel might leave him for another man?

 _Yeah_. He _knows_ he would be.

Dean is a worrier, and his tendency to get jealous in relationships is no secret—and using Castiel’s sexuality as a catalyst for that jealously is not only _stupid_ , it’s amoral; and Dean needs to shape the fuck up right now or else he isn’t deserving of anyone!

He takes another deep breath and attempts to relax once again.

There needs to be a change of mindset here, and the only one who has the power to do that, is _him_.

He has questions—that is true. He has concerns … that is undeniable, but he doesn’t need to have judgments. _That_ is simply irrational and stupid.

No—he needs to begin looking at this for what it is: the beginning of something that he wants; and if he wants to keep it, and keep it going, then he needs to be realistic.

And who knows? Castiel might want something casual to start off with anyway; so Dean needs to either be okay with that, or tell the guy right from the start that he isn’t. And if Cas responds how Dean _hopes_ he’ll respond, then Dean needs to be one hundred percent cool with the man’s sexuality—starting _here_ and _now_.

So instead of researching bisexuality in order to confirm that the guy doesn’t secretly prefer women over men, Dean needs to let go of his preconceived notions and learn about bisexuality for the mere sake of _knowledge_.

That’s how he always approaches all his questions, so _this_ _one_ shouldn’t be any different.

***

Charlie had been squealing for nearly five minutes before Dean finally threw a balled up piece of paper at her. “Alright! Jeez! Calm down!”

“Calm down? _Calm down!_ Dean! You two kissed!” the girl jumps around some more while clapping her hands. “I don’t know how you’re _not_ freaking out right now!”

Dean shrugs before going back to stamping their label onto the inside cover of a new book.

Charlie quickly smacks his shoulder. “Seriously! What’s wrong with you? You basically just lived out a real-life romcom moment! You should be over the moon!”

Dean sighs but eventually closes the book, choosing instead to turn and focus completely on his easily-excitable best friend. The new attention immediately calms her down. “ _Look_ —I just don’t know what this is yet, okay? I don’t know if that kiss was just a kiss or if we’re dating now, or what. I don’t know anything other than the fact that—I _like_ him. I just don’t want to get too attached if he’s only lookin’ to get laid.”

The girl puts her hands on her hips and then glares at him, but Dean only shrugs again in response. “Castiel doesn’t strike me as the ‘only wants to get laid’ type, Dean.”

“Yeah, he’s probably not … but you can’t judge a book by its cover.” Dean smirks and then holds up the new book for emphasis, and Charlie rolls her eyes dramatically.

“ _Whatever_. Just don’t get so aloof about it all that you come off as uncaring.”

“I never do that” Dean grumbles, knowing that his pants may as well be on fire for as big of a lie as _that_ is.

“Uh huh. _Right_. And I never have sex with women” Charlie deadpans—and it makes both her and Dean laugh a moment later.

But once they calm, Dean feels it well up in his throat—the thing that he’s been trying to repress since yesterday … the thing that he’s ashamed for even _thinking_ is a thing; yet, he can’t help but want to share it with _someone_. “He’s bi, Charlie.”

“So?” Charlie says immediately, and Dean wishes that that had been _his_ first reaction.

“ _So_ … doesn’t that make this a little more complicated?”

Charlie stares blankly at him, as if he’s speaking gibberish. “Um, no. Why would it?”

“I dunno.”

Charlie takes a step closer to him before resting her hand on his shoulder, and it makes Dean flinch because he thinks she’s going to smack him again; but instead, she just shakes her head. “Is that what’s actually got you so worked up? The fact that he’s bi?”

Dean shrugs, but Charlie’s hand remains resting on him, and her fingers begin to rub softlybback and forth against his shirt.

“Dean—c’mon, dude. You know better than that” she says with a gentle sense of mockery. “Why does him being bi make any difference at all?”

“I dunno! I just …” Dean sighs before finally turning and leaning up against the edge of the circulation desk. “I guess I just feel like there’s all this competition now. I mean, I’ve only ever dated other gay guys; and I was already overly jealous with _them_. Now I have to worry about Cas looking at _women_ too?”

Charlie chuckles, saying “Cas” softly to herself—obviously finding it cute that Dean is using an abbreviated version of the guy’s name; but then she turns and relaxes against the counter beside him, nudging Dean in the side with her arm. “Look … not to be a dick, but that all sounds like it’s _your problem_ , not _Casti_ —Cas’s. I think that this has less to do with him being bi, and more to do with _you_ liking him a lot, so you’re freaking out about all the possible things that could mess it up.”

 _Yup._ That’s it. He knows it is—and he’s probably known that on some level this entire time, but to hear Charlie say it out loud is really making it settle in. “Yeah” Dean eventually mutters with a nod.

“So, you need to stop focusing on all your own insecurities, and start looking at all the facts.”

“Which are?” Dean asks, half humorously, half serious—because he needs as much perspective as he can get right now.

“ _Which are_ —” Charlie snickers, poking him once more with her elbow, “this guy obviously likes you too! He invited you out on an adventure with him! He kissed you!  What more do you need?”

Dean smiles to himself, suddenly remembering the way Castiel’s lips felt on his, and for a moment—it doesn’t seem like he would ever need anything more in his life. “And he did …” Dean blushes, looking around the library for a second to make sure no one else is listening, even though it’s early and they haven’t even opened the doors yet, “he did turn down that hot bartender because—well, he said that he wanted to see if I was interested first.”

Charlie’s eyes go wide and soon, she’s jumping up and down and squealing again. “See! _You see?_ He is totally head over heels for you!”

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far” Dean protests, even though the thought _is_ rather exciting.

“I would!” Charlie insists. “So, can you please stop being Mopey McMoperstins now and start getting happy that you might actually have a boyfriend?”

“We’re not official, Charlie.”

“Not yet! But it sounds like that’s what Castiel is hoping for!”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely!”

Dean sighs. “I can’t get my hopes up.”

The girl settles down some but her voice is still pitched to the rafters as she responds. “But you _want_ to hope, and that’s the most important thing! Just—allow yourself to be hopeful and excited, Dean! Have fun!”

“Yeah—I guess it wouldn’t hurt to just have fun with it, no matter where it ends up going.”

“Exactly!” the girl sings, but then stops still and grabs Dean’s arm, as if she just thought of something that could mean life or death. “When are you seeing him again?”

Dean squints down at her, hissing in pain with how tightly she’s squeezing him. “Jeez—ow! Tonight! I’m seeing him tonight!”

Charlie’s death grip only gets tighter as she giddily shrieks at the top of her lungs. “Ah! Oh my God!”

Dean finally tears his arm away from the girl’s claws, but he can’t stop himself from laughing along with her—because in spite of all his worries and in spite of all his concerns, Dean _is_ excited.

He just can’t wait to see those blue eyes again.

***

He’s nervous.

He’s literally sweating through his shirt, and part of him wants to run inside and change it—but he won’t have a chance to because Castiel has just turned the corner onto his street.

“Shit” Dean whispers, smiling immediately afterwards because he can see Castiel smiling at him through the windshield of his truck.

The other man pulls up along the curb and then motions for Dean to hop in.

He nods, but Dean takes one deep breath before finally pulling open the passenger door. “Hey” he says, hoping that his voice doesn’t crack.

“Hello, Dean” Castiel says back, looking him up and down a moment before flicking his eyes past him. “Is that your house? It looks nice.”

Dean bites his lip but eventually turns away from the beautiful man beside him so that he can shut the car door and look out the window too. “Oh, yeah. It’s tiny, but it works.”

“I had an ex who said the same thing” Castiel mutters, and Dean’s snaps back to him in shock. The other man grins, deep lines stretching out from the corners of his eyes, and it makes Dean bust up laughing.

“Oh my God, dude! Seriously? You’re making dick jokes?”

Castiel chuckles and then leans back to put the truck in gear, seeming rather pleased with himself for making Dean laugh.

And Dean is pleased too—because with as nervous as he was, that tiny bit of middle school humor was exactly what he needed to relax.

***

Lawrence stretches out below their feet, lights looking like pinholes in a sheet, and they’re both hiding beneath it—tucked away in their own little moment. 

Dean smiles over the curve of the hill—one of the highest at the edge of the town; which in truth, isn’t that high at all, but it’s just enough to make him feel like they got away from everything.

It’s awesome. It’s awesome that Cas made _this_ the date. Dean thought they’d end up in some stuffy restaurant, making awkward conversation over a basket of free bread; but instead, Castiel took them to the drive-thru at Braum’s, got them both some burgers and fries … as well as a banana split for later, which he put into a cooler that he had brought with him; and then he drove them up to the top of this hill, so they could eat and talk, or _not_ talk. Both possibilities felt fine right now.

Things felt comfortable.

They felt easy, and Dean was more grateful for that than Cas could probably ever realize.

“So …” he finally begins, scooting back a little more in the bed of the truck. Castiel had backed it up to the edge so they could sit in there and look out, “you said your family was really religious?”

Castiel nods as he chews his burger slowly. “Yes” he eventually answers around a mouthful. “My father and mother were extremely devout Catholics. I spent nearly every day in church, and I have probably read the bible a hundred times from cover to cover. It was a _must_ in my home while growing up.”

“Jesus” Dean mutters, and then almost chokes—because, there probably isn’t a _dumber_ response he could’ve come up with than _that_ one. “Um, sorry” he follows up quickly, color rushing his entire face.

“It’s fine” Castiel says simply. “I left the church a long time ago. My _family_ is religious. I’m not.”

Dean gulps down another bite of burger and then takes a moment, mulling over his next question carefully, wondering if he should even ask it—but he figures he should, because Castiel told him to be free with his questions; he gave him that permission. “Is that because—because you’re bi?”

Castiel nods again. “Yes. I had known for a very long time that I was attracted to both men and women. I suppose I could’ve just focused on the latter and made my life a lot easier—I could have stayed with the church, gotten married, had kids. That would have made my parents very proud.”

“Why didn’t you?” Dean asks, now, completely enthralled with the other man’s story … _he always gets that way with a good story._

Castiel chuckles, but there’s something sad behind it, making it sound hollow and tired. “Because I was fifteen, had low impulse control, and my father found me in the back of this very truck with a boy named Devin who I, ironically enough, had met in Sunday school.”

“ _Oh_ ” Dean says, now looking around at the medal siding of the flatbed, as if he would find this Devin-kid still hiding somewhere.

“Yes” Castiel agrees, to nothing in particular—and he continues to stare out onto Lawrence like it was on fire. “After my father caught us, he screamed at Devin to leave—and once he did …” a shuttered breath escapes his lips, “well, let’s just say that my father wasn’t pleased.”

Dean’s frowns. “I’m sorry, man” he says, reading between the lines because, he’s read versions of _this_ story before.

Castiel nods again, solemnly. “I left Atlanta that same night. I took this truck—which was _mine_ , mind you. The farmer that lived next to us gave it to me after I helped him work his land one summer … so I took it, and drove until I ran out of gas. Then I ended up in Tennessee. I found some odd jobs for a while, slept in the truck, managed to save up some money, and eventually bought some more clothes, school supplies and such, and then registered myself at the local high school.”

“Wow. Jesus, Cas. I’m sorry—I don’t … I can’t imagine how rough that was.”

“I managed” Castiel says with a soft smile. “I knew I needed to graduate high school if I was going to survive at all. And thankfully, it wasn’t too long after that that one of my coworkers at a the grocery store where I was employed, discovered my situation and invited me to stay with her. She became like a second mother to me. She helped me get back on my feet.”

Dean smiles. “Thank God there’s still good people in the world.”

“Indeed. I still go back and visit Ellen every Christmas.” Cas is smiling now too—and Dean is happy that there are at least a few nice memories floating around that dark, tousled head.

“Do you have any contact with your family though? Have they ever reached out to you?” he asks after another minute.

“My sister found me when I was in college. We do still talk here and there—her and I were the closest out of all my siblings. I have six of them.”

“Damn. I’m exhausted just with one!”

“A brother or a sister?”

“Brother” Dean laughs. “Although, he has hair like a girl.”

A look of confusion puzzles Castiel’s face, but he doesn’t ask. “So, are you two close?”

Dean nods as he grabs his soda cup and takes a sip from the straw. “Oh yeah. Sammy n’ I are about as close as you can get.”

“That must be nice—to have someone whom you can rely on.”

Dean shrugs, “Yeah. I guess. I mean, I know he would always have my back … but I feel like it’s more my job to have his, ya know? I am the older brother after all.”

“You feel responsible for him—I understand.”

Dean nods again. “Well, it’s more than that—” he clears his throat, feeling strange for wanting to talk about this, because he never wants to talk about it with anyone.  Even Charlie had to play detective and put all the shady pieces of Dean’s life together enough for him to confirm its truth; but with _Castiel,_ and the solitude of this grassy hill, and the hypnotizing dance of the fireflies swirling along the dirt beneath the tires, he feels the need to be open. “Our mom died when I was in high school; and we never really knew our dad _so_ —it was kinda up to me to take care of Sammy.”

Castiel’s eyes widen, whites catching the speckled lights of the city below. “How did you manage that? I mean—legally? The state usually intervenes in those cases, don’t they?”

Dean is surprised by the question, but he finds that he’s pleased that Castiel asked him _that_ instead of what people _normally_ ask when they find out about his past, which is: _how did your mother die?_ “Well, our Uncle Bobby—not really our uncle by blood, but he’s family, ya know? He moved down here from Idaho and took responsibility of us; but he still didn’t really know much about raising kids, so I was basically Sam’s mom and dad, and Bobby was the breadwinner.”

“Well, as difficult as that must’ve been for you, I’m glad that your uncle was there to support you any way he could.”

Dean smiles. “Yeah, me too. Who knows what would’ve happened if he didn’t step up and adopt us.”

“You both would’ve been put into foster care, I imagine.”

“And split up” Dean adds on, shuttering with the horrible thought.

“You’re very lucky.”

It’s not something Dean applies to himself often, but thinking about it now—sitting next to someone who was abandoned by pretty much his entire family, Dean realizes it’s true. He _is_ lucky. “Yeah” he finally chuckles. “I am.”

“And—how did your uncle react when you first told him you were gay?”

Dean blinks a few times, a little surprised by Cas’s segue and forwardness. It’s not something that people normally are so bold in asking. “Uh—well, he was cool with it I guess. He was—well, he was just _Bobby_ about the whole thing.”

“I don’t know what that means” Castiel says, and Dean laughs because, _how could he expect him to?_

“Well, if you met him, you’d get it.”

The other man presses his lips together, but overall—accepts the response for what it is, and then falls quiet once more, turning back to the town to let its distant sounds fill in around them.

Dean watches him from the corner of his eye, studying the way the moonlight mixes with the orange glow rising up from the streetlamps in just a way that amplifies all of Castiel’s angles. He looks so hard and dangerous right now; yet, the softness in his eyes and the pink of his lips calm those razor edges to the point that they’re inviting Dean to touch them; and he _wants_ to touch them.

He wants to feel the man’s stubble on the curve of his palm. He wants kiss the hollows of his neck.

Dean wants to taste those lips again, feel their warmth.

He wants to give Castiel a happier memory in the back of this truck—something to make him forget the hurt of his past.

“Would you like to eat that banana spit now?” Castiel asks suddenly, turning his head just in time to catch Dean staring.

Dean reddens, bites his lip but then nods, hoping that some ice cream might be enough to cool his feverish desires.

 

After a few moments, Castiel had gotten the cooler from the cab of the truck and brought it back around to the bed. And soon, he and Dean were both scooping up spoonfuls of strawberry, chocolate and vanilla heaven, topped with sweet syrup and whipped cream.

Dean’s hopes of this dessert being an ample distraction are quickly dashed however, because watching Castiel lick the edge of his spoon and suck whip cream off the tip of his thumb is absolutely pornographic—and Dean has to constantly adjust in his seat just to keep his pants from bulging.

“Would you like the cherry?” Castiel asks suddenly—in a dark voice that puts the night sky to shame.

“Uh—you can have it, if you want” Dean squeaks, because the other man’s eyes have darkened too, and they’re looking at Dean as if he is another scoop of something for him to devour.

Castiel smirks, before gingerly pulling the cherry from atop the mounds of ice cream and then plucking off its stem. “How about we split it?” And then the man raises the candied fruit to his lips, slowly taking a bite and splitting the thing in half. He closes his eyes a moment, relishing in the taste, humming softly in pleasure.

Dean is wide eyed, hypnotized by the show—and breathless as Castiel opens back up again to stare at him.

And then, those tan, nimble fingers move across the space between them—still holding the other half of the cherry, moving it towards Dean’s lips … lips that are parted with heavy breaths and words that he’s far too nervous to say.

Castiel slides the cherry between them, allowing his thumb to caress immediately afterwards—moving softly along the rim of Dean’s mouth, leaving a thin line of juice and warmth in its wake.

“Is that good?” Castiel finally asks, with a tone that implies he’s not actually talking about the fruit at all.

“Yes” Dean whispers, chewing slowly but fearing he might not be able to swallow. His throat feels tight all of a sudden, and his body is beginning to shake.

Castiel lifts his chin. “Hm—it was, wasn’t it?” Then he smiles, leaning in closer, setting down the plastic container of ice cream so that his other hand is now free. “In fact—I think I’d like _another_ taste.”

Dean nearly chokes as he’s pushed backwards, down onto his back against the flat of the bed.

Castiel moves over him, placing a knee on each side of Dean’s hips, straddling his body and locking it beneath his own. “I’m really glad you came out with me tonight, Dean.”

If Dean could breathe, he’d say that he was glad too. He’d say that this is the one of the best dates he’s ever been on. He’d tell this man that he’s excited about what this all could mean, and where this all was going—but he doesn’t get the chance to say a word, because in a second, Castiel is bending down to kiss him, slow but rough, tasting like cherries and sugar and salt—and everything that Dean has ever wanted, all pressed between two pink, powerful lips, and a wicked tongue, hell bent on lapping up every last bit of his sanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this took ages. Sorry. Hopefully I can post another chapter in a couple days.


	7. Reality

* * *

* * *

 The touch of his tongue—

Dean had dreamed of it far more than he cares to admit. He was dreaming of it even back when he still hated Castiel. But now that he doesn’t … now that they’re here, lying on top of one another in the bed of this truck; now that in some, almost supernatural way, Castiel is _his_ —at least for the time being, Dean doesn’t have to dream.

And the reality is far better than anything his imagination could create.

“ _Shit_ ” Dean hisses as Castiel’s hand begins to fiddle with the buckle of his belt, all while kissing what are sure to be bruises, into the side of his neck.

“Don’t get too excited—I’ve only just begun” Castiel whispers against the crook of Dean’s jaw, but the warning has the opposite effect on him, and now Dean is arching with every new kiss that lands on his skin. The other man just chuckles deeply, and Dean can feel it vibrate through each of their chests like an earthquake. “I like you, Dean—you’re the first man that I’ve been with who has simply handed over the lead.”

 _This_ —this _does_ calm him some, but not in a good way. The white hot heat he was feeling just a moment ago, dulls into a hollow hum at the base of his spine, and all the goosebumps that were rushing across his skin—smooth away in a matter of seconds. “And … and the _women_ you’ve been with?” Dean asks nervously, quickly following up those nerves with a surge of anger towards himself—because even _now_ , right in the middle of some of the hottest foreplay he’s ever had, he can’t help being bothered by all those nagging concerns over Castiel’s sexuality.

Castiel stops himself from kissing Dean’s collarbone to look up at him, blue eyes creasing with question. “Well … the women I’ve been with could be competitive too—but the men, there was _always_ a power struggle with them in the beginning. It’s refreshing to not have to do have that with you.”

Dean nods, but really—all he’s taking away from this is that he is more _woman_ than man. He feels weak. He feels aloof and submissive… even though he _knows_ that all those stupid gender roles are bullshit, but that’s how he feels. He can’t stop it, no matter how much he wants to.

“Dean? Are you upset?”

_Fuck … now he really is acting like a woman._

He grimaces at himself.

_Shit … and there he goes again with the toxic masculinity._

_Charlie would beat the shit out of him if she were here right now—and Dean would happily let her._

He sighs and curtly shakes his head.

_There’s no reason for this!_

_This is fucking stupid!_

After another moment, Dean nods, but the nod was more to himself than to Cas—a silent agreement with his own mind to stop acting like such a tool right now. “Yeah—I’m, _uh_ … sorry. I’m fine.”

But the other man doesn’t seem convinced at all. “Do you want us to stop?” Castiel asks quickly … and the question is sincere. It doesn’t sound disappointed or angry— _no._ In fact, the only thing Dean can detect in the other man’s tone is _concern_ , concern that he’s crossed some line or hurt Dean’s feelings.  It’s thoughtful—and certainly not the typical “masculine” thing to do.

For all his dominance, for all his lead-taking, for all his past history with women—Castiel still isn’t falling into some stereotypical role, _so why should Dean?_

Dean sighs. Castiel just wants to make him feel good, and the fact that that might be faltering right now is concerning to him. And it’s this concern that finally silences all those worrying thoughts enough for Dean to remember that there is an unbelievably sexy man right in front of him, asking permission to touch his dick; _so why the flying fuck is he ruining it?_

“Hell no” he grunts, smiling as he thrusts forward and pulls Cas into his lips once more.

The other man chuckles again as he leans into the kiss, immediately leaning further and further—pushing Dean down flat again so he can continue what he was doing before. “I want you to know something about me, Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, shuttering with all the new goosebumps that Castiel’s voice gives him. “Yeah?” Another kiss connects with his neck, and even more bumps zip across every inch of his skin like a tidal wave.

Castiel’s lips curve against Dean’s body. “One of my favorite things to do—something that arouses me more than anything else—is trying to hold a man down as he releases into my mouth.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, because the words alone actually sounded somewhat clinical, but they were also the hottest thing he’s ever heard in his life—and they make him rock hard against the zipper of his jeans.

Castiel continues, a wicked glint in his eye. “And something tells me, that you might enjoy this too; but I always like to make sure. You have to want it, Dean.”

With a thick gulp and a deep breath, Dean finally nods. “I want it— _yeah,_ I really want it.”

“Good. That’s very good, Dean” Cas smiles, licking his lips.

Dean licks his own as he watches the other man look him over, seeming to appreciate the entirety of what he’s seeing, which is a little strange if Dean is being honest. He knows that he’s not a bad looking guy—but usually once someone gets to know him, he feels like his looks don’t matter as much anymore. His off-putting personality and overall grumpiness trumps his green eyes and angular chin. Men tend to stop checking him out so hard after that initial introductory conversation. Instead, they listen long enough to fuck him and leave. Or skip they fucking altogether and _just_ leave.

But here’s _Castiel_ —a man that he’s not only had multiple conversations with, but also a man who he’s showed his ugliest side to. A man who has watched Dean be paranoid, be bitter, be immature and prejudiced. A man who’s had to give him multiple chances to dig himself out of these holes he’s seems so hell bent on falling into. A man who’s had to exercise some serious patience just to get this far—to be here, on top of this hill in the beginning throws of it all. That same man that Dean has put through the wringer, is still looking at him like he’s something to behold.

_It’s terrifying._

But it’s also something that Dean doesn’t want to lose.

Through all the weirdness and hell that he’s put this man through, Cas still sees something in him, and Dean wants to keep that something alive for as long as possible.

“You can do whatever you want to me” Dean finally says in a determined husk. “I’m down for anything.”

Castiel continues to scan his eyes across the body before him, seeming altogether un-phased by this heated invitation. “I doubt you truly mean _anything,_ Dean.”

And with that, Dean practically snorts, just desperate for the other man to touch him again. “No— _seriously_ , dude! I’m game for anything!”

With an arched brow, Cas finally turns his head once more to meet Dean’s gaze, seeming more dubious than ever before. “Is that so?” he clucks with a smirk. “You mean to tell me, if I said that I wanted to skin you alive and wear your derma like a party dress, you’d be completely fine with that?”

It takes him a second to process the words, but then Dean’s mouth falls open with shock, and he immediately props himself up onto his elbows. “ _Wait_ —what?”

“Or if I said that I wanted you to ejaculate on that tree over there while I whipped you with a felled branch, you’d be _game_ for that too?”

“ _Dude_ … what the fuck are you talking about?”

Castiel's smirk quickly breaks into a grin and he shakes his head, finally crumbling into a uninhibited fit of laughter. “What? You’re the one who said ‘ _anything’._ ”

“Uh, _yeah_ —but within reason!” Dean argues, still unsure of what to make of all this. His erection has completely flat-lined now, and his balls are starting to ache.

But then, Castiel is climbing on top of him again, kissing Dean’s lips reassuringly, softly—like it’s something familiar for them. Like it’s nostalgia and a treasured memory all rolled into one. “Exactly” he says after a few more pecks. “ _Anything_ is not reasonable, Dean. I want you to be honest with me. Be real. Be specific. Being vague or telling me what you think I want to hear will only end with the both of us being unhappy one day. So— _please_ , if you want something, say as much. If you’re not enjoying what I’m doing, tell me that too; and I will do the same in return. We both deserve to be heard, don't we?”

And it’s ironic, because Dean actually didn’t hear a thing that Cas had said after the words “one day” slipped from that soft, beautiful mouth.

_One day._

Does that mean Cas has been thinking about a future for them? Does that mean there are plans beyond this one, fleeting night? Does Castiel want this to last?

_No._

_How could he?_

They barely know each other. They’ve only hung out a couple of times, and most of those hours, Dean spent being silent and miserable.

_How the fuck could Castiel plan a future around that?_

_What could he have possibly seen in that?_

 

Dean has been quiet for too long, and he finds that he’s been staring at the man on top of him—blank faced and confused for well over a minute.

“Dean?” Castiel finally asks—sounding concerned again, but Dean can’t seem to snap himself out of his headspace this time. “Dean—what’s the matter?”

_Get it together, Winchester!_

“I … uh … I” Dean stumbles over his thoughts. Words clash against the folds of his brain. Synapsis misfire, burning up syllables before turning them to dust. “I … um …”

Castiel sighs and finally pulls away, sitting himself completely upright now  so that he can turn and look out across Lawrence—just as far away from them as Dean feels. “Maybe we should try this again some other time … when you’re more comfortable.”

It’s amazing. It’s amazing that Dean can fuck this up time and time again—say the wrong things, do the wrong things, be basically an awful human being, and Castiel still doesn’t completely give up on him. “Why?” The question falls out of his mouth like a dead-thing, motionless and unfeeling.

And Castiel’s eyes are instantly on him again. “ _Why?_ ” he asks back, titling his head in that adorable way to emphasize the inflection.

“Why do you still want me?”

It’s brief—the moment of disbelief, but Dean catches it before it flees from Castiel’s face, and then a new look washes over him. A look of sadness, as well as one of total awe. “Well …” he begins, softening in his seat, forehead relaxing, jaw—unclenching, “I suppose I just have a thing for the self-deprecating types.”

In spite of himself, Dean begins to laugh—even though there seems to be a lot of truth in what Castiel has just said; but it sounded so ridiculous, and in turn—made _Dean_ sound so ridiculous, that he can’t help but see the hilarity in it all.

Thankfully, Castiel starts to laugh too, eventually falling back into Dean with one more gentle kiss before curling into his side and stilling himself there, giving Dean permission to put his arm around his shoulder and hold him close as they both look up towards the vast night sky.

“We should hold off on all this” Dean finally whispers—once a shooting star splits the black above their heads with a bright, bold snap.

Castiel nods, but doesn’t say anything more. He just continues to breathe, warm and deep against Dean’s chest.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

“I don’t want you to.”

Dean smiles, the thick branches swaying above him in quiet celebration. “Really?” He feels Castiel smile too, and then the man’s arm slips across him like a blanket.

“Yes—really.”

And from that point on, Dean can say with absolute certainty—that this really is the best date he’s ever been on.

***

That night in the truck is now five days gone, but Dean holds onto the moments like they’re still here with him—warming his body and pressing against his lips. They fill up everything he does. He sees _Castiel_ in everything he does.

His hair is in the brown leather binding of the books.

The glint in his eye reflects in every window of the library.

His words take over all of Dean’s thoughts—so anything that anyone else says to him, any single sentence he reads, is somehow transformed into Castiel repeating “one day” soft and sweet, deep and vibrating, over and over until all Dean wants to do it fall asleep to it.

Needless to say, this leads to a lot of mistakes being made—and Charlie is at her whit’s end cleaning up after him.

“Dean! Seriously, bro? _Again?_ ” the girl whines, holding up a book that she had just stamped with the wrong date. “That’s the third time this week!” she exclaims through the doorway of his office, but Dean just chuckles and shakes his head, eventually turning back to the work order that he’s been filling out for the last hour. It should be a ten minute task—tops, but with all of his daydreaming, Dean can’t seem to keep his focus.

Charlie sighs loudly, pulling Dean’s attention to her once more. “That’s it! You’re not allowed at the circulation desk anymore! You’re making my job _way_ harder than it should be!”

Usually, he’d argue with such a command, because—well, he _is_ technically Charlie’s boss, so she can’t really tell him what to do like that; but right now, he simply nods, because he knows it’s for the best. Other than setting the due-date stamp to the wrong day three mornings in a row now, he’s also accidentally checked books out to the wrong patrons, labeled DVD’s as books and vice versa, gave someone back a twenty in change when they had originally given him a ten, _and_ inadvertently erased an entire series from their catalog—barcodes and all. Poor Charlie has been chasing around his mistakes like sugar-charged toddlers, and it’s unfair. So, if she wants to ban him from doing anything other than mundane office work, than she has the right to.

Dean won’t argue with her.

Not today.

He doesn’t feel like arguing with anyone anymore.

 _Fuck_ —he’s actually happy! Truly, completely, soul-lightening _happy_!

His job may be suffering a bit because of it, but it seems well worth the tradeoff. It really does.

 

After another minute, Charlie is back in his doorway, glaring at him hard – probably noticing that his gaze has drifted from the computer screen and he’s now staring at the corner of his office like Jesus himself has just appeared there. She clears her throat and Dean finally snaps out of it.

“Hm?” he asks with a careless smile.

Charlie rolls her eyes at him. “I was going to do it after work today, but since you’re basically doing _nothing—maybe_ you can go do it now, because frankly, all I want to do when I get home is go have a beer with my girlfriend and bitch to her about how you’re being an idiot … and having you out of the library in the meantime would be a mega bonus too.”

Dean snorts and shrugs, once again—finding no reason to argue with the girl. “Sure—what do ya need?”

The lack of confrontation only seems to infuriate Charlie more though, so she stiffens her stance and folds her arms across her body, and she instantly looks mean enough that it finally wipes the dumb smile off of Dean’s face. “I need envelopes. Not the plain kind, the kind with the little windows in the bottom left corner. The _left_ corner, Dean—not the right! The fine letters don’t print home addresses on the right.”

Dean nods, trying his best to focus on what Charlie is saying—but there’s a little blue book sitting on the surface of the desk behind her, and suddenly, he’s smiling again.

“Dean!”

“What? Yeah—um, envelopes. Right. The window ones. _Got it._ Anything else?”

Charlie narrows her eyes at him. “And white out and staples, and ink pads and hand sanitizer … and tape.”

“Okay … yeah. Got it.”

“And chocolate … _a butt ton of chocolate_ ; because you owe me _that_ much. And not the cheap kind either! None of the chalky crap! You better be getting me Toblerone or Ghirardelli. I want the good shit that melts as soon as it hits the tastebuds!”

“ _And chocolate._ Okay. No problem” Dean confirms, trying to sound serious enough to put his red headed best friend at ease, but it doesn’t seem to work because she’s automatically rolling her eyes again.

“Forget it. I’m going to write this all down for you because I can _totally_ tell you’re not paying attention.”

“I'm paying attention!” he insists, but she just waves him off and turns away to go make a list. Dean doesn’t stop her, because even though he thinks he can remember it all, there’s no telling what might distract him once he’s out and about, and the last thing he needs is to get the wrong thing and have Charlie kill him for it.

He’ll never get to see Cas again if _that_ happens.

***

He walks through the automatic doors of the office supply store—bright pink post-it blazing in his hand. The words on it are written in a heavy ink, scrawled through multiple times, indented in the paper and underlined with force—the physical representation of Charlie’s seething rage.

Dean knows that that pen will be lodged in his eye if he gets back to the library with the wrong thing, so he reads over the list carefully for a third time before finally heading towards the paper and parchment aisle, hoping he’ll find the right envelopes there.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?” a young man in a grey and red polo asks out of nowhere. His name tag says “Peter” and, it makes Dean smile, reminding him of the pilot at the airport,  of the bar ... _of Cas_. He normally hates when employees push their help on him in stores, but this time, Peter’s young and goofy smile is a welcome one.

“You sure can, Petey! Can I call you Petey?”

Peter takes a minute step backwards, and his friendly smile fails a bit. _“Um—sure._ What is it you’re looking for?”

Dean laughs and then reaches out and pats the young man on the shoulder, making him flinch hard. “You’re a good kid, Petey. I like you! You’re a go-getter.”

“Um … thank you, sir.” Peter’s smile is completely gone now, and his eyes are wide. He looks like a frightened rabbit staring down the throat of a wolf.

But Dean only steps in closer to drape his arm around Peter’s shoulder before gingerly handing him Charlie’s list. “This is what I need. _All this._ Ya think you can help me with that, Petey?”

Peter swallows hard—his adam’s apple bobbing shakily in his long, thin neck. He reads the note, pulling back a bit when he gets to the bottom of it, obviously shocked by the words “DON’T FUCK IT UP!” written by Charlie's hand in furious, bold caps. After another moment, he manages to wriggle out from beneath Dean’s arm, voice coming out a pitch higher than it was a second ago. “I can get all this for you, sir. Um—stay here, and I’ll be right back.” And then Peter is gone, speed walking out and around the end of the aisle, leaving Dean there alone to smile after him.

“What a good kid” Dean mutters to himself, chuckling before he starts to look around the brightly colored wall of parchment. There’s a million different shades and hues. It’s like he’s looking at paint samples. Option after option—a rainbow of backings for still-to-be-written words. Then he starts to wonder what his library would look like if the pages of all his books had this much variety. Every color in every text, filling all his shelves with an array of pigments and pride. It’s a cool idea ... one that’s wholly unrealistic of course, but it fills him with happiness all the same.

He stands there a few minutes more, catching sight of Peter every now and then, dashing around like a mad man as he fills up a hand basket with everything that was on the list. It's actually pretty impressive; but then, just beyond the kid’s speedy blur, Dean notices something else—a very familiar silhouette. Angles and curves that have been etched into his mind like a carving in a tree.  “Cas?” he whispers to himself—disbelief and excitement swirling through his chest in a whirlwind, making his heartbeat erratic.

Castiel is standing in the far corner of the store, looking at the displays of office chairs, walking in slow circles around one. His eyes dance across the leather. His hand glides across the back.

 _Fuck_.

Dean wishes he was that chair.

He _was_ that chair only a few days ago. I _t’s good_ —being that chair. It’s amazing.

“Here you go, sir.”

Peter’s voice is breathless but triumphant, and it startles Dean out of his awe. “Oh, uh—thanks.” He quickly grabs the basket from Peter’s outstretched hand and then nods at him, a silent signal that it’s time for him to leave.

Peter looks thrilled with the permission, and he’s already several steps away before he suddenly turns around and calls out something else to Dean. Something _about—something._ Dean isn’t really sure, nor does he care, because Castiel is squatting down now, inspecting the levers on the underside of the chair, gripping one and manipulating it slowly, making the chair move up and down.

_Up and down._

He spins it.

He pats the leather seat.

_Up and down again._

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

And then—Peter comes back into his view, only much further away, and _much closer_ to Castiel. Dean watches the young man walk up to the older one, stopping several steps from him before gesturing with an open palm to the chair. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he’s assuming Peter is asking Cas if he wants to buy it.

Castiel lifts himself and then puts his hand to his chin, pondering on the chair some more—obviously still on the fence about it.

It makes Dean wonder—is Castiel _always_ this cautious with his choices? It didn’t seem like it before, the way he just hopped from one hobby to the next. The way he can switch from one lover to the next … one sex to the next. Or maybe that’s all just Dean’s judgy perceptions rearing their ugly heads again. Maybe Castiel has _always_ been this cautious, this careful—and it’s _Dean_ who’s been the impulsive and careless one, making everything seem so wild and out of hand all the time. After all, Dean’s the one who leapt out of that back door like a madman, ready to catch Castiel in the act of simply returning a book.

It was Dean who opted to go rock climbing on a whim,  just because he was paranoid.

It was Dean who bolted and who almost bolted again when dirt biking.

In fact, Castiel has really given no reason for Dean to see him as impulsive or careless ... other than his mistreatment of books of course. The guy is solid. He’s solid and sure, and for some reason … he likes _Dean_.

He likes _crazy ol' Dean Winchester._

Dean is a busted, rusty, squeaky, torn up office chair, and for some reason—Castiel said that he wants to take him home.

And with that thought— Dean is rolling his eyes at himself.

_Jesus._

_The guy wasn’t lying when he said he has a thing for the self-deprecating types._

 

After another five minutes or so, Peter is walking out of the back room with a large box in his arms—a picture of a handsome looking office chair plastered on the front of it. Dean watches the transaction take place. He watches Castiel fish his money clip from his back pocket—like he did that very first night they met. And once again, Dean notices the supple curve of the man’s ass, held in so nicely by all that fitted denim.

Once his money is handed over, Cas quickly gets his receipt in return—and Dean knows that the man is about to leave, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to walk over there. He should say hi to him at least. He shouldn't just stay hidden in this aisle, watching the man like some sort of creepy stalker ... but he still doesn't move.

He’s enjoying this distance right now—it’s giving him some perspective. It’s allowing him to see the entirety of Castiel, not just his eyes, his lips, his hands as they slide down the length of Dean’s body.

The expanse of this store is casting a new light on the cut of that jaw, showing it as something new—just a beautiful as ever, but belonging to a man that exists _completely outside_ of Dean’s world.

 _Castiel_ —he’s more than just a guy who destroys Dean’s books.

He’s more than just a sexy bi-dude who turns Dean’s world upside down.

He’s more than just a pair of talented hands and soft lips in the bed of a truck … _he’s a whole human being_. He’s a confident, well-off, independent human being that is completely capable and happy on his own.

And— _he likes Dean._

 

Dean is smiling again … even as Castiel walks out of the store and out of his sight completely, Dean is grinning ear to ear.

***

When he gets back to the library, his mood hasn’t changed. He’s still grinning. His head is still spinning like a kid in an office chair. He's still elated with the realization that this is all real.

_Cas is real._

 

Charlie seems instantly annoyed when she sees Dean walking inside, but the goofy wave he gives her softens her a bit. She smirks. “You got everything?”

“Yup!” Dean says happily, practically skipping the rest of the way to the circulation desk so he can hand her the bag of supplies.

Charlie’s smirk holds as she reaches out to grab it from him—but just as her fingers connect with the plastic, Peter’s final words to Dean in the paper aisle suddenly become crystal clear in his memory.

Peter— _good ol’ Petey_.

Dean should’ve listened to him more closely. He should’ve been paying better attention … if he had been, if he’d been watching _the kid_ instead of Castiel’s beautiful body, he would’ve realized that Peter was _trying_ to save his life; but it’s too late now … Charlie is already looking in the bag.

Dean holds his breath. Sweat is starting to prickle at the back of his neck. His heart has halted mid-beat.

And when that girl’s eyes turn back up to him, fire and fury broiling within the whites—he tries to run … but she catches him.

She catches him and he knows, _there’s no saving him now._

She won’t forgive him this time. He scorned her in the _worst_ _possible way._

In the midst of all his love-sick infatuation ...

_He had forgotten the chocolate._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know ... this chapter took forever; but it's here now! And I really like it; so hopefully you do too. 
> 
> More to come. Stay tuned!


	8. Comfortable

* * *

* * *

Castiel’s condo wasn’t what Dean was expecting. First of all _… it was a condo_. Dean hated condos.  They felt sterile and impersonal, and all the neighbors seemed to crawl over each other like ants. He’s guessing he felt this way after living in the dorms at college; but the beautiful man standing in the kitchen right now seems to be slowly changing his views.

Change they might, but he still would’ve expected Cas to live in some giant estate, considering all the money he has now; but this place is small and old, and looks like the choice of a man with a mediocre salary.

_Maybe this is where he lived before he made his money._

It would make sense. The man still drives the old truck from his youth—he’s obviously sentimental in spite of his wealth. And that makes Dean admire him more.

“I’m not much of a cook—but chicken alfredo is simple enough to prepare” Castiel calls out, not looking away from the massive pot he’s stirring.

“I didn’t think you could cook at all, considering the state of that book you returned.”

Now Castiel _does_ turn around, but only briefly to roll his eyes at Dean. “ _That_ was the result of several unusual and unfortunate circumstances. Do not take that to be the norm.”

“ _Right_ … the norm is nailing my books shut and dropping them into rivers! After all that, who has time for cooking?”

Castiel turns around completely now—saucy spoon, dripping onto his hand. “You will never let that go, will you?”

Dean laughs as he looks Castiel up and down, enjoying the way the man’s body angles against the kitchen counter. “Dude … I’m a librarian, and you tortured my books literally to death! It’s my job _not_ to get over it.”

Castiel huffs and squints, but doesn’t fight him—instead, he just turns back to continue making their dinner.

With the last word, Dean smiles victoriously, and then that smile softens, realizing how easy this all feels. This is technically only their third date— but they’ve already settled into a comfort that he thought was reserved for old married couples. It feels effortless and calm, and the silence isn’t scary at all, it’s just a time to reflect on how good this all is.

As third dates go, this was the first and the best one that Dean has ever been on. He supposes the other guys he’s dated gave him more than three dates, but only shallow assholes could really classify them like that. Dates should be planned, exciting, something to look forward to … not just saying “your place or mine?” before an eventual, rough fuck. Castiel thinks of dates the same way Dean does, and their last two are evidence of that; even though their second date was cut short by Charlie. All the computers went down in the library, so Dean had to go back to work to help her manually get through the rest of the Saturday rush. Before her call though, he and Cas were heading to the driving range at the edge of town. Even though Dean hates golf, and Cas has never tried it before—they both still agreed that whacking the crap out of some tiny balls sounded like fun. And it _would have_ been fun if their plan hadn’t been thwarted … they need to try it again someday.

Dean really wants to have his _Caddyshack_ moment.

 

As Castiel continues to cook, Dean busies himself by looking around the small condo. There are a lot of knickknacks on the shelves—little memories that Dean wants to know about. A small ceramic sombrero that has the word “Hola” on it. A piece of driftwood and a few shells. A picture of Cas, standing in front of what looks like a giant toaster, but he can’t be certain with the angle of the photo. Off to the left of the tiny living room, on the mantle over the electric fireplace, there are a handful of framed photos—old, warn and sun faded. One of them shows a large family all gathered in front of a porch; and down in the middle, sitting cross legged on the dirt, is an eight year old Castiel. His hair is wild and bushy, his legs looks smudged with mud. A young girl is leaning on his shoulder, red hair—looking like rust through the waves of the old film. The rest of the children all stand around them, some half-smiling, others looking like they’d rather be anywhere else. And behind them all, stand a man and a woman, stoic and serious, but still obviously proud of the family they they have created. Dean sees it in their eyes—the man’s especially. He’s strong a fierce.  He’s overwhelming, even among so many others around him. He’s captivating … _he looks like Cas._

“That’s my family” Castiel whispers, snaking his arms around Dean’s middle a moment later.

Dean jumps slightly, but smiles—happy with the surprise. “Yeah, I can tell. You look a lot like your dad.”

With that, Castiel’s grip loosens some. “Yes. He and I look the most alike out of all the children. My siblings share more resemblance to our mother, but I was somehow _his_ carbon copy.”

Something in the man’s voice tells Dean that he’s not exactly _grateful_ for those circumstances.

Cas continues, finally dropping his arms completely before going over to sit on the couch. “I thought I was going to be exactly _like_ him too. When I was a child, I expected to grow up, take over the farm and raise a family there just like he did. Out of all his children, I was the only one who ever had the desire for that life. My father was very proud.”

Dean nearly asks what happened, but then he remembers what Castiel’s father discovered in the back of that truck so many years ago. “I’m sorry” is all he can think to say.

“It’s alright. I realize now that I would have not been happy in the life. I thought I would be because it would have made my parents so happy; but I learned a long time ago that their happiness in no way reflected my own.”

“Do you miss it though … like, any part of it?” Dean asks quickly, without thinking—but he’s curious. There is something so intriguing about the man in front of him. This farmer turned computer programmer, turned _millionaire_ who still likes to frequent libraries and drive around an old beater pick-up. His story is better than most, and Dean can’t wait to read the next chapter.

“Of course” Castiel says simply, now leaning back into the cushions of the couch, as if that admission drained him of all his energy. “I miss the busyness of it. There was always work to be done on the farm—and if you haven’t noticed, I like to stay active. I took that whole ‘idle hands’ mantra very seriously.” He sighs and then glances back to the photos. “And—I miss my family too. My sister gave me those pictures the one time she ventured out for a visit.  Even though her and I talk on occasion, it doesn’t replace the feeling of having your family surround you. They could be stressful and overbearing, but they were my blood, and that meant a lot to me.”

“I get that” Dean says softly, feeling drawn to the man now—so he moves across the small space and settles in next to Cas on the couch, putting one arm around his shoulder which instinctively makes the man nestle close to Dean’s side.

They stay still and quiet for a few more moments, just listening to each other breathe and the far off sounds of the pasta sauce bubbling on the stove.

“At least I had Ellen” Castiel says suddenly, more to himself than anyone.

“She was the coworker that took you in, right?” Dean asks, thinking back on everything Castiel had already told him.

“Yes. She was wonderful to me, and so was her daughter … Jo.” After another second of thought, Cas lifts himself and looks Dean in the eye. “In fact, now that I think about it, you and Jo have a lot in common—personality-wise that is.”

“So, she’s hilarious and incredibly smart and savvy?” Dean asks, wiggling his eyebrows while puffing up his chest.

“ _No_ ” Cas deadpans. “She’s cocky, yet self-loathing at times, while also being one of the corniest people known to man.”

“Hey! I’m not self-loathing, I just think that I could probably do better in every single area of my life and everyone is too good to be around me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and Dean laughs, but he thinks they both know that there is a lot of truth in what he just said.

He tries to recover. “And what _you_ think is corny, is actually highbrow humor. I’m sorry you’re just not clever enough to get it.”

Castiel snickers as he pulls himself off the couch. “That is _exactly_ something Jo would say.”

“Well then, she sounds like a winner. You should appreciate her more.” Dean continues to laugh, but then stops, suddenly wondering if Cas ever _did_ appreciate her … if he was ever drawn to her the same way that he’s drawn to him? He _did_ say he likes the self-deprecating types. Is _she_ what started that trend?

Dean swallows thickly as he watches Castiel walk around to the kitchen to check on dinner. He decides that now is not the time to ask such questions—besides, what does it matter? If Jo and Cas did have a relationship, then Dean should be thanking her. She obviously made _his_ type of personality desirable to the man. Dean most likely would not be sitting here right now, watching an incredibly sexy guy make him dinner if she didn’t pave the way.

_Thanks, Jo._

 

“It should be done in a few minutes. Would you mind getting the bowls out of the cupboard?”

Dean nods, even though he knows Cas can’t see him; but somehow, they both seem to understand the an agreement was made, just like an old, comfortable, married couple would.

He quickly stands up from the couch and goes into the kitchen too, grazing Castiel’s neck with a kiss as he passes him to get the bowls out of the glass-faced cabinet. He then tries a few drawers until he finds the silverware, and then, after a little more searching, he collects some napkins, water glasses and placemats, finally going over to the tiny table with it all to make a decent setting.

When he’s finished, he turns around to see if Castiel wants him to do anything else—but the other man doesn’t seem to have any further instructions; all he seems to have is two smiling eyes, set on Dean, hand stilled mid-stir, and a sense of complete contentment that doesn’t fail to bring a giant grin to Dean’s face.

***

Dinner was amazing—not necessarily the food. The food was fine; but Cas was being serious when he said he wasn’t much of a cook. The amazing thing though was the fact that Dean laughed nearly all the way through the meal. Castiel started telling him about his life on the farm, from having to breed the cows to horrible mishaps with an automatic tiller.

Castiel wasn’t really trying to be funny with any of it, but that only made it all the more hilarious. Dean nearly choked on his alfredo sauce from laughing so hard.

“You are easily amused, aren’t you?” Cas had asked after nearly giving Dean the Heimlich.

“No—but the thought of you sticking your fist in a cow’s—” Dean couldn’t finish because he began laughing again.

Castiel just smiled and got up to get Dean some more water.

 

Once he had settled and once the table was cleared, Castiel decided to show Dean around the rest of his small home. There really wasn’t too much else to see beyond the kitchen and the living room—just Cas’s bedroom, as well as a tiny office with a loveseat and a corner desk. Inside, Dean noticed the office chair that he had witnessed Castiel purchase, sitting in front of an open laptop, but he didn’t ask anything about it.

The only thing he _did_ ask—was something that he’s actually been curious about ever  since he first pulled up outside the condo.

“ _Wait_ … so where did you brew the beer and do all the woodworking and stuff? Before, I just assumed you did all that in a garage; but, you don’t really have a garage here, do you?”

Castiel smiles, pulling Dean down with him to sit on the loveseat. “I own about four acres of land at the edge of town. I put a large work-shed on it, as well as trailer. Every other weekend, I like to go out there and try out new hobbies. If I was cooped up in _this_ place too long, I’d go insane.”

Dean nods. “Yeah—I’m actually surprised by your place. I would’ve thought a rich guy like you might live in some mansion somewhere.”

Castiel is chuckling now. “I can’t say that a mansion would really suit me; but at some point, I would like to build a nice farmhouse out on the property.”

“Why not do it now?” Dean asks, leaning away so he can watch Cas answer his question.

But the man only shrugs. “I suppose I’m waiting until I have someone to share it with. In the meantime, it’s nice to come here to this complex, and at very least, have neighbors to talk to.”

 Dean is instantly picturing himself in a rocking chair on a front porch in the middle of nowhere … Castiel sitting in another chair right beside him, lemonade in-hand. _It’s certainly not an unpleasant thought._

“When you grow up with such a large family, you get used to people always being around you; and it’s easy to feel lonely when they’re not there.”

And now Dean’s heart is aching, thinking of how horrible it must have been for Cas back when he was still living out of his truck in a strange city—all by himself. _Abandoned_. “I’m sorry” he finds himself saying again, wishing he knew a better way to comfort the one sitting beside him.

“Don’t be. You’re here, keeping me company—I can’t say I feel lonely at all right now.”

A blush runs up Dean’s neck, and he clears his throat to try and will it away.

“You are very adorable when you’re shy, Dean” Castiel purrs, inching closer to him just before leaning in to kiss him behind his ear.

The heat quickly engulfs Dean’s face, and goosebumps coat his body. “You ain’t so bad yourself.”

“Oh? You think I’m adorable?” the other man gravels, directly into Dean’s ear.

Dean nods, closing his eyes as another kiss graces his skin. “Adorable… hilarious … very, very sexy. You’re all of that and more.”

“You’re such a flatterer, Dean.”

“No—I’m just wondering why someone so _hot_ is with someone like me.”

Castiel pulls away once more and glares at him with a smirk. “And there goes that self-deprecation again.”

Dean smiles. “Well, you _did_ say you had a thing for it.”

Those blue eyes narrow on him. “I did … and do you remember what else I said I had _a thing_ for?”

Dean tries to think, but before he gets a chance, Castiel is yanking him to his feet, quickly spinning him around only to push him back down again into the office chair by the desk. But it’s not until Castiel is falling to his knees that Dean remember what the man is referring to. “Oh— _oh fuck_.”

“We can do that next if you like” Castiel grunts, hands already fiddling with the buckle of Dean’s belt.

“Yeah— _um_ —I mean, yes. Yes please!”

“Such good manners” Castiel snickers, finally tugging on the waistband of Dean’s jeans to pull them down his hips.

Dean lifts himself slightly to help the man along, already at full salute and dampening the fabric of his boxers.

“I’m happy to see you’re as excited about this as I am” Castiel says, eyeing Dean’s tented cock like it’s his dessert.

“You have no fuckin’ idea, man” Dean grunts, eyes already rolling into the back of his head with just the _thought_ of what Castiel is about to do to him. But, they’re soon bursting wide again because there is hot breath enveloping him, and a new dampness soaking through the cotton folds of his underwear. And when Dean finally looks down, he is met with the sight of that beautiful man—mouthing his tip like a popsicle … and it’s embarrassing how close he is already. “Shit! Oh—fucking, fuck!”

Castiel grins against Dean’s erection. “You have a mouth on you.”

“Back at’cha” Dean heaves, gripping the handles of the chair—worried that he might actually break them off by the end of this.

Another chuckle rumbles over him. “Oh, just you wait” and the wickedness in Castiel’s voice sends a shudder through every bone in Dean’s body.

After a few more minutes of tortuous nips and squeezes, Castiel finally pulls Dean’s boxers down too, leaving him bare-assed on the leather seat.

Dean would normally feel too exposed like this. He tends to prefer sheets and a dark room when he’s getting intimate with someone, but something about the way Castiel moves, the way he speaks, the way he looks at him—makes Dean want to be _seen_. He wants those blue eyes to take in every single cell that makes him up. It’s like he owes him that.

“I can’t wait to taste you” Castiel says, staring up at him one last time, ensuring that Dean is watching when he takes that first pull of him into his mouth.

He sucks him in, all the way down until his nose is tickling Dean’s pelvis—and if he could describe the heat, the suction, the power, the pure flame that it sent through his spine, if he could describe _anything_ , Dean would classify it all as perfection, but he’s too manic to do so. And as he writhes in the chair, tensing every muscle and thrusting into that striking mouth, Castiel does his best to hold him down.

There are hands on his wrists, gripping them to the arms of the chair. There’s a chest and shoulders pressed against his knees. There are elbows digging into his thighs—and there are teeth, giving him bites of warning whenever he threatens to pull away.

Dean is gone—lost in the white space of bliss and mania. Castiel has driven him completely mad. He’s turned his body into complete contradiction. He is heavy and weightless. He is hot and cold. He is in pleasure and pain, and he is happy with all of it; while also needing it to end _right_ this very second.

“Fuck!” he screams, finally breaking one hand free, reaching out to grip Cas’s hair, holding him as still as he can just as he explodes down the man’s throat; but Castiel has too much control, and even as Dean jerks his head away, Cas sucks him in even deeper, making Dean feel like he just might die in this office chair … and he is totally alright with that.

In another moment, Castiel is releasing Dean from his vices, sitting up straight once again to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dean watches him deliriously—vision blurry because his eyelids feel like led.

“I enjoyed that very much” Castiel rasps, throat obviously raw from the last few minutes.

Dean blushes, realizing that it _was_ in fact, only a few minutes. Hopefully Cas sees that as a representation of his own skills and not as a clue to how desperate Dean has been for this. “M-me too” he finally croaks, still shivering with the aftermath.

Castiel smiles, but then his eyes grow dark again. “Now however, it is _my_ turn …”

Dean is confused a moment—his brain still mush after his release, but it all comes rushing back to him as Castiel pulls him upright once more, holding him close to keep him standing. Dean’s legs feel like warm clay, ready to crumble any moment, but Cas is strong— _he’s got him_ , and soon, he’s kissing his lips, tasting salty and bitter, and Dean’s head starts spinning once again.

And then, almost instantly, he finds himself crawling along the loveseat, bracing his chest against the brown, suede arm—his ass propped in the air. Once again, he thinks he should feel too vulnerable like this, but the only sensation that’s swimming through him now, is the need to be filled.

 _God_ , he wants Cas inside him.

Not just physically—he wants Cas to take him up, to take him over.

He wants to only feel whole when the other man is there; he wants to know that ache the moment Castiel walks away—he wants to know it because _then_ , he’ll know what it’s really like to be connected to someone … to _matter_ to someone.

To _belong_ to someone.

Castiel clicks open a bottle of lube that Dean is guessing, was kept in the desk somewhere.

The cold gel instantly warms when it drips onto his rim, but he jumps anyway—not having felt anything new down there in so very long.

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks, voice still raspy, but now edged with a hint of concern.

Dean nods, taking a deep breath before wriggling back some, eager to have to man push into him.

“Good—but please, tell me though if we’re moving too fast.”

“ _Not fast_ _enough_ ” Dean grumbles quickly, inching back even more.

This makes Castiel laugh. “Well then—let me speed things up for you.”

A pressure is suddenly pushing against him—too narrow to be Castiel’s cock.

Suddenly, the other man has a finger inside him, and then two, moving meticulously back and forth, working Dean open while also working him into a mess.

“ _Mm_ , fuck—yes, faster!”

Castiel picks up the pace, pushing in and out, causing a blissful sting to ring through Dean like electricity. “Something tells me, this isn’t enough for you.”

Dean shakes his head, rocking against Cas’s knuckles shamelessly.

“Then let’s try something else.”

With that, Dean is soon empty again, and he whines—like a begging dog, wanting more and more, never feeling like he’s had enough.

But then there’s some rustling, and then another _click_ —and Dean looks back just in time to see Castiel standing at the edge of the loveseat, clothes in a pile around his ankles, naked skin glowing the bright light of the office. He is beautiful, toned and tan. His thick thighs flex without him even trying, and his massive forearms twist and tense as they work the drops of lube up and down his shaft. 

Dean nearly chokes with the sight—and then he _does_ choke when those blazing hot eyes flick up to look at him. Pink lips wet beneath the swipe of an even pinker tongue, and soon—Castiel is posting behind him once again, gripping his hips as he pulls their bodies together.

Dean gasps—being spread open and stretch out around girth and heat. It aches and burns, but his belly warms with the satisfaction of finally feeling like there’s enough.  Enough inside, enough around—enough _Cas._

Castiel groans, deep and throaty—fingers digging into Dean’s skin as he bottoms out inside him, making the room instantly feel ten degrees hotter.

Dean begins to sweat, so he props himself up onto his fists to give Castiel a better angle, and to keep their bodies from slipping apart—because Dean doesn’t want to lose one moment of this feeling, and by the enthusiasm in which Cas is hammering into him now, he’s pretty sure the other man feels the same way.

And it’s amazing—how Castiel moves; it’s animalistic yet, so methodical. It makes Dean want to _watch_ as much as _feel_ , so he turns back to look at his beautiful beast, only to find that he’s already looking at _him_.

Their eyes lock onto one another. Neither blinks. Their gazes hold steady even as they thrash about atop that loveseat—an old west stare-down, seeing who will shoot first. Only, Dean has the upper hand here … _Cas gave it to him._ He is still riding high from his earlier release, but Cas hasn’t had that satisfaction yet.

Dean grins.

With a shaky heave, he pulls himself up to his knees—doing his best not break Cas’s rhythm; but Castiel slows a moment, obviously confused about Dean’s new tactic.

“Dean?”

Dean quickly shakes his head, leaning back to press himself against the other man’s chest—shuddering as he feels Cas’s cock take on a new angle inside him.  With both arms, he reaches out and clasps his hands around the man’s neck, and then lays his head on his shoulder.  “Keep going” Dean whispers in his ear, catching a brief glimpse of a crazed blue just before Castiel picks up his speed again.

As he thrusts upward, Dean turns and bites his earlobe—and it makes Castiel belt out a filthy moan. Dean smiles and does it again.

“Dean—I’m—”

“Inside me, Cas … fill me up.”

Castiel screams now—his nails cutting into Dean’s stomach as he thrusts and convulses; and Dean tries to hold on, but the warmth that’s stretching him out now is something different entirely. His own cock hardens again, leaking sticky drips out onto the suede below.

“Fuck … Cas! _Shit_ …” Dean’s body tenses into a rock hard mass, clamping around Cas, wringing him dry.

“Christ!” Castiel wheezes, flinching hard against Dean—taking slow, deep breaths to try and an calm himself.

“Is—isn’t that a sin?” Dean chuckles, knowing that technically, according to that so-called “good” book, this _all_ is a sin.

But Cas doesn’t respond. He only wheezes and groans into Dean’s shoulder, finally giving it one, sweaty kiss before he releases his death grip on him.

Dean collapses—realizing that all his strength was due to the adrenaline he felt from making this usually-stoic man, _wild_. But now that things have stilled, his muscles feel soupy, so his skin seems to be the only thing keeping him from becoming a puddle on the floor.

Castiel gives one more gasp as he slides out of him, and Dean grimaces a little as everything that was previously plugged up inside, oozes out.

“I—I will get you a towel” Cas stutters, a small, dreamy smile permanently stitched onto his face.

“Thanks” Dean mumbles.

He watches blearily as Cas hobbles out of the room—admiring that plump ass for the millionth time, only now that there are no jeans impeding his view, it’s _true beauty_ can really shine. Dean laughs once Castiel disappears into the hallway, and then he laughs louder as he imagines how he must look right now…

Nude.

Sopping.

Splayed out like a busted Barbie doll across this loveseat.

_He is a mess._

He is a wreck!

And he thinks that he’ll have no problem at all getting used to it.


	9. November 2nd

* * *

* * *

“I met someone, Mom.”

He listens to the creek at the bottom of the hill—water rushing over rocks, and he imagines it’s his mother, urging him to go on.

“He’s funny … but not in that ‘trying to be’ way. He just _is_. And he’s adventurous, and he’s clumsy …” Dean breathes in slow, letting the crisp morning air fill his lungs. “And he … he actually seems to like me.”

A bird sings in the branches of the old oak tree above his head, and he can’t help but think that’s his mom saying “Well, of course he likes you, Dean!”

Dean smiles to himself. “Yeah, yeah.” His eyes dart back to the engraving on the marble slab. “Mary S. Winchester. Born December 5th, 1954. Died November 2nd, 1994. A Loving Mother—Now A Loving Guardian Angel.” Bobby had it made. He spent a good portion of his savings on it, as well as on this plot at  the top of this hill. He said he wanted her to be as high as possible, so that when her boys came to visit her, they’d be close enough to heaven for her soul to hear them.

Bobby has a secret poetic side, and Dean loves it.

A squirrel catches his eye, running in the distance across the lawn. It bobs between granite slabs and small statues of angels. Other tombstones sprout all around him, reminders that so many came before this time, and so many more will fill in the still-blank spots of green. Dean sighs—hoping that everyone here got to live a full life.

He knows his mother didn’t.

She didn’t get the chance.

“His name is Castiel” he finally says, after he blinks away the tears that want so badly to fall. “I know— _crazy name_. His family was super religious, but uh—he got out of it. Now, he’s just this weird, hilarious dude that… _Jesus, Ma_ —let me tell you, he has the bluest eyes ever. Like, take the sky and the ocean, and those flowers that used to grow outside the house. What were they?” Dean closes his eyes and pictures the round bundles—blooming atop long green sticks. He would break them off in bunches and bring them inside as gifts for his mother. She would grin every time, like he just gave her gold. “Hydrangeas! That’s what they were … his eyes are like _those_.  They’re beautiful.”

He blushes after a moment, looking around to make sure no one else is nearby to hear him being such a sap. There isn’t a soul except for the squirrels and the birds— _and_ , he hopes, his mother. He really hopes she can hear him.

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t want to jinx anything … we aren’t even official yet, but, I think he could really be the…” Dean stops himself, superstition taking hold of his vocal chords. He can’t say what he really thinks out loud yet. It’s too soon, and he can’t afford to ruin anything. “I just … I have a good feeling is all.”

The breeze picks up, warm and sweet—just like how his mother’s arms felt when they wrapped him in a hug.

Dean smiles—a few tears finally free themselves and slip down his cheeks.

_He’s glad his mom approves._

***

He had taken the day off.

He always takes this day off, because he can’t focus on anything else with those horrible memories swimming through his brain…

The police officers standing in the middle of the principal’s office.

The sound of Sammy crying against the side of Dean’s own little suit.

The sight of their mom’s coffin slowly lowering into the earth.

The man’s picture in the paper beneath the headline “Drunk Driver Orphans Two”.

The images and sounds plague him, swarming in his skull, buzzing so loud it makes his head ache.

 

Sam had taken the day off of his classes as well, and they met up around noon at Dean’s house. Sam had brought some sandwiches, and Dean already had some beer, so they sat quietly on Dean’s couch and drank in the dim light seeping through the window.

It was tradition. Not a fun tradition, but tradition none the less.

“She was forty when she died, right?” Sam asks suddenly—but he’s so quiet, it doesn’t feel like the silence is truly broken.

Dean sighs “Yeah. Why?”

“That’s young.”

“Too young” Dean counters.

“Way too young” Sam agrees.

“Hell, _I’m_ almost there—just a handful of years to go and I’ll be the same age she was when …” he trails off.

Sam nods.

Dean drinks the last of his beer, slipping further into the cushion of his couch. It’s a sobering thought, so the last thing he wants to be is sober.

“Dean …” Sam finally mutters, so soft, Dean barely heard him over his own breathing. “Don’t die too.”

His heart turns to lead in his chest and he sits up, turning to his younger brother—who suddenly looks twenty years younger beside him. His eyes are shining with tears and his cheeks are hollowing out—and it’s obvious that he is desperately trying to hold back a sob. Dean moves closer and wraps an arm around his brother’s shoulder, pulling him in so that shaggy head can lean against his own. “ _Hey_ —you know I’m not going anywhere. I need to see you graduate, get married, have kids and then see _them_ get married before I ever think of walking into the light, okay?”

Sam sniffles and nods—wiping his nose on his sleeve like he’s eight years old, not _twenty eight_ and about to graduate from law school.

“I’d fight my way outta Hell just to see all that. Nothing is gonna stop me, so you just worry about making all that happen, so when my time _does_ come, I can die happy—alright?”

Sam chuckles a bit, and Dean smiles; and soon enough—they’re both sitting upright again. Sam has calmed down and Dean has made everything better, just like the old days immediately following them burying their mother on that hill.

It’s a hollowing kind of nostalgia, and Dean can’t tell if he likes it or not.

A knock at the door though, keeps him from coming to a conclusion.

“Who’s that?” Sam asks, looking a bit scared now that their secluded little bubble of hurt might get popped prematurely.

Dean shrugs, but then remembers that he ordered some books online last week, so that’s probably the delivery guy letting him know that they’re on his doorstep. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it” he says, setting down his beer and pulling himself to his feet with a groan.

Sam’s eyes follow him out of the living room, but they lose him once he rounds the wall into the entryway—and Dean is grateful for that, because he would not want his little brother to see the pure shock on his face when he opens the door to find Castiel on the other side, grinning while holding up an old fashioned picnic basket.

“Hello, Dean. I was going to surprise you at work, but Charlie said that you were home today—I hope you’re feeling alright.”

Dean’s mouth hangs open, but all he manages to say is “Uhh...”

Castiel leans his head to one side and stares at him, smile slowly lying flat across his face. “ _Are you_ alright?”

Dean shakes his head, but then nods, and then blinks blankly—hoping that somehow, _that_ was clear.

But judging by the look Castiel gives him, it obviously wasn’t. “Oh—um, well … I was hoping to ask you something. I wanted to …” those beautiful blue eyes flick down to the ground, and those stubbly cheeks blush pink. “I thought we could go and have lunch first. It’s a beautiful day.”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice calls out from the living room, and Dean’s brain short circuits—too many emotions, too many surprises, too much out of the ordinary that he wasn’t planning on for today is making everything spark.

Castiel’s gaze shoots back up, and he glares at Dean with what looks like _fear._ “You’re not alone” he says flatly, but it somehow punches Dean in the gut.

All of a sudden, Sam is standing beside Dean— _close,_ their ears almost brushing as he stares over Dean’s shoulder to see who’s at the door.

“I’m—I’m sorry for interrupting” Cas grumbles quickly. He takes a step back, now staring up at Sam with a hint of anger, but that fear that Dean had caught before is still what’s mainly plaguing the man’s face. “I’ll go.”

Dean shakes his head some more—he tries to speak. He probably looks terrified himself, which is more than likely helping Cas run away right now.

_Fuck!_

“Wait!” he finally yelps, stepping through the door after him. “Cas! Hold on!”

“Cas? Oh— _that’s_ Castiel?” Sam booms brightly, and it’s _that_ exclamation that finally makes Castiel halt in his backpedaling .

Dean catches up a second later and puts his hand on the man’s shoulder, still shaking his head and still unable to find anything to say.

But thankfully, his much more coherent and _vocal_ brother is at his side once more, ready to save the day. “Castiel! I’m so glad I finally get to meet you! I’m Sam. Dean’s brother.”

The relief that rushes over Castiel is almost audible, and Dean watches all the muscles in the man’s body relax. “Oh! _Sam_! Yes, yes … I have heard so much about you! I’m sorry—when I first came to the door and heard your voice, I thought—”

“You thought I was bangin’ him?” Dean gasps, partly laughing but mostly disgusted.

Castiel blushes and hangs his head a little.

And Sam punches Dean in the arm “Dude—gross! You didn’t have to say it like _that_.”

Dean is fully laughing now. Nothing cheers him up quicker than getting on his little brother’s nerves.

“Well, let’s not all stand out here—Castiel, come on in! We got beer and some food. I’m sure Dean won’t mind.”

With a soft smile, Castiel holds up the picnic basket. “Oh—I brought some food as well, but there is enough for three.”

Sam claps his hands together. “Great! Then follow me!”

With a sheepish side-glance, Castiel looks at Dean as he passes him to follow Sam inside, and Dean watches them both walk away, wondering how this day got so weird.  _Weird_ , but not unpleasant; and it’s the first time in many, many years that Dean has felt happy on the second of November.

***

“So—are you two celebrating something?” Castiel asks as he unpacks the picnic basket onto the kitchen counter, obviously noting the case of beer and other food that is already there.

“Um—“ Sam says, looking over at Dean a moment. “I guess— _in a way_. Today is the anniversary of our mother’s death.”

Castiel freezes, looking so white all of a sudden that Dean worries the guy might faint. “Oh—oh my—I am so sorry! I’m intruding and … oh dear. I—I’ll go. My apologies.”  He grabs the half empty basket and begins to bolt for the door, but Dean sticks out his arm and practically clothes-lines the poor man.

“Cas— _stop_. It’s fine, okay?”

Sam steps up to the two of them and pats Castiel’s back reassuringly. “Yeah, man. Really. I have been wanting to meet ya, and I know that our mom would cosmically kick both our asses if we didn’t make you feel welcome just because of the date on the calendar.”

Dean chuckles. _Too true._

“No, no … I can’t. This is a personal time for you both, and I’m just …”

Dean holds his breath, watching as Castiel’s face turns red all over again.

“You’re just my brother’s _boyfriend_ —which means, you’re practically family anyway. _So, you’re staying_ , and that’s final.”

Dean and Cas exchange wide eyed stares as Sam tugs the man back into the kitchen.

They hadn’t actually agreed to that yet— _boyfriends._ They’ve been on dates and they’ve gotten … _intimate, b_ ut they weren’t official. Hell, Dean isn’t even sure if they’re _exclusive_. He knows _he_ is, and judging by the hurt that he saw in Cas’s eyes when the guy first saw Sam, Dean thinks that they’re probably on the same page. But—still, they haven’t talked about it; yet, Sam is just stating it as fact. It’s scary, but Dean can’t say he doesn’t like the sound of it.

“So—tell me … why do you like my annoying older brother? I mean, I’m just curious.” Sam laughs as he leans against the kitchen counter,

Dean rolls his eyes. _What a bitch._

Castiel gives him a crooked smile, eventually setting his basket back down to finish unpacking it. “Well—I admit, he can be a bit frustrating.”

“Tell me about it!” Sam bellows, smacking the counter for emphasis.

“He doesn’t always express how he feels, and he has a quick temper. And sometimes, I think he takes things too seriously.”

Sam is grinning like a mad man, and Dean is grimacing at them both.

“However …” Castiel continues, not looking up from the wedge of cheese he’s arranging beside some crackers, “the way your brother kisses is _absolutely_ intoxicating, and I can’t even begin to tell you how good he is in bed.”

That grin is quickly steamrolled by disgust, and Sam is flailing upright, batting at the words that just came out of the other man’s mouth. “Oh, dude! C’mon!”

Dean is shocked, but as soon as that wears off, he is doubling over laughing, wondering how the hell Casitel just managed to read the dynamic of the room so quickly. How did he know that childish humor is the best way to ease any tension in this family? _How?_

“What’s wrong? You asked me _why_ I liked your brother” Castiel says sinfully, looking wicked and sexy, and it makes Dean proud.

“Hopefully that’s not _all_ you like about me” he finally says, sauntering over to wrap an arm around Castiel’s waist.  
“No … I also like how genuine you are. And you’re also very sensitive and dedicated to what you love.”

Dean is beaming but Sam is still having a conniption.

“Okay, c’mon … guys, can you cool it?”

“You asked, Sammy!” Dean hollers, just before kissing Castiel on the lips.

Sam groans loudly, making the other two giggle like children between pecks.

***

“I am sorry that I interrupted your day” Castiel says.

They’re sitting in Dean’s backyard, watching two birds hop along the fence line. Sam is inside, trying to solve some major issue that came up with a group project he’s doing for his environmental justice class.

“Don’t be. Seriously, Cas … all Sam and I had planned today was to sit around and drink and get depressed. It’s nice to have someone come by and pick us up out of our stoopers.”

Castiel gives him a half-smile but he’s looking down at his hands. “Yes, but sometimes we need those days where we can just quietly reflect.”

 _That’s true_.  Dean knows it is; and if this was the only time in the year he got to do this, he probably would have turned Cas away at the door. “Yeah—but, I live here alone, man. I get more quiet reflection than is probably healthy. I need company. I need someone to come in here and tease my brother for me and bring me cheese and crackers and wine, and make me laugh. Like … you have no idea how nice you made this day. Seriously … _thanks_.”

Castiel’s half smile fills out, and soon—he’s reaching out his hand to Dean, asking for it to be held, and Dean obliges without hesitation.

They sit there for a while, quiet, but exchanging subtle squeezes every so often, just letting the other know that they’re still there, still present, still willing to hold on. It’s so perfect and peaceful, Dean could actually fall asleep like this, but then Castiel speaks, keeping Dean’s eyes open to the world.

“What was your mother like?”

Dean feels that age old ache well up in his ribs, but he knows from experience, talking dulls it. “She—she was great.” He smiles and leans his head back, looking towards the sky before eventually closing his eyes. “She was a little crazy—but in the good way. She always pushed us out of our comfort zone when it counted.” He remembers the adventures they used to go on—the hikes, the drives. She was always planning something. “And she was an amazing listener. I don’t think I ever had a problem that she could make better just by hearing me out.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand once more, and it helps Dean to _say_ _more_.

“I mean—even when I told her I was gay, I thought that maybe … _maybe_ she wouldn’t sit there and listen to me that time, but she did. She listened and she smiled, and she hugged me. She never stopped loving me, not for one second.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman.”

“Yeah” Dean whispers, finally peeking out to the blue, just in time to see a puff of clouds float by. “And I think she would’ve _loved_ you.”

Castiel’s hand finches in Dean’s, and it makes him look over at the man—he looks tense.

“Sorry, I just mean—I think you two would’ve gotten along if you ever got to meet. Not that … um …” Dean swallows thickly, wondering if he just implied something here. After all, they’ve only just started dating, and now Dean is talking about metaphorically _meeting the parents_. _Is it too soon?_

“No—no, it’s fine. I suppose, I’m just touched that you would even think of me alongside her.”

Dean blushes. “I think about you a lot, if I’m honest.”

Castiel turns and watches him. “Really?”

Dean has to look away—this is a new level of intimate that he’s not used to. “Uh— _yeah_. Really.”

“So—in that case, can I ask you something?”

Dean’s eyes snap back to Castiel’s, and his heart is suddenly in his throat. He nods.

“I—had planned on asking you up on the hill, where I took you when he had first gone out together; but obviously this day has not gone as planned for either of us.”

Dean is practically choking now on the thrumming and thumping in his neck, and there’s sweat pilling all down the ridge of his spine. He nods again.

Castiel turns in his seat, completely facing him before laying his other hand on their already clasped ones. “Dean Winchester …” he begins.

Dean nods for a third time, but the rest of his body is frozen.

“I would very much like for you to be my boyfriend. Would you do me that honor?”

Dean is nodding yet again—he can’t stop, not until he pulls Castiel in for a kiss—long and deep, and so full, the hollow spaces inside him shrink to almost nothing.

He smiles as they both stop to breathe—and he thinks that somewhere, somehow, his mother is smiling too, happy that this day will now hold a _good_ memory for her boy.

Dean knows that _this_ is all she’s ever wanted for him.

***

Sam had left about an hour ago—it was getting dark and he still had to drive forty five minutes just to get back to his apartment.

Dean and Cas both hugged him goodbye, and Sam had joked how they already seemed like an old married couple—yet, since _things_ had now been said, and _titles_ had been bestowed, Sam’s jokes weren’t nearly as scary anymore.

In fact, Dean hoped that they were more like premonitions, and he didn’t stop himself from imagining the two of them, old and gray, watching Dean’s nieces and nephews grow up handsomely around them.

As soon as they were alone though—they acted like anything _but_ an old married couple; “horny teenagers” would probably be a better description of them.

Clothes quickly came off and Dean’s small house filled up with moans a sweat just as quickly; but it didn’t feel raw and dirty like their first time did … _not that Dean minded that at all._

Instead, _this_ felt honest and natural—and their words came out honest and natural too, between gasps and clenched teeth, they said things that they might’ve otherwise been too shy to say when upright and clothed.

_“You’re perfect.”_

_“You’re beautiful.”_

_“It feels so right being with you.”_

_“I feel the same.”_

It was all so fulfilling and good, Dean wished he could bottle it up and save it for the days that he’s by himself in this tiny, little house.

 

It’s past nine p.m. when they finally slow down, exhausted but blissful, tangled up in Dean’s sheets. Their stomachs are rumbling and they have already agreed to hit up Braum’s once they get their strength back … but then Castiel’s phone rings.

With a deep grumble, he rolls over to hang off the bed, trying to fish the phone from his pants pocket without falling off completely.

Dean chuckles and pretends to nudge him, causing the man to teeter precariously on the edge.

Cas finally pulls himself back and thwacks Dean’s in the gut, and they both laugh some more as Castiel answers the call.

Dean rolls over and begins kissing the man’s neck, wanting more than anything to make him moan into the phone as he greets whoever is on the other end.

Castiel pinches Dean’s arm, but it doesn’t make him stop—Dean continues to suck bruises into that soft , tan skin. “Yes, _hello_?” the man rasps into the receiver.

A woman’s voice is barely audible, and Dean pauses, wanting to hear what’s being said.

“Oh—oh—uh, yes. Hello, Cathy.” Castiel’s body tenses and soon, he’s sitting up.

Dean props himself onto his elbow and watches the back of the man’s head, trying not read too much into the strain that’s filling Cas’s voice.

“No—of course I haven’t forgotten ... Um, well, _yes_. You can still count on me … I do need to tell you though …” Castiel looks backwards over his shoulder at Dean, reaching out a moment later to squeeze his thigh, “this will have to be an outing _as friends_. I am actually currently in a relationship.”

A long pause follows, and Dean feels his blood run cold. _Is this one of Cas’s exes?_ _And what can she still count on Cas for?_

“Yes, yes—I know I promised you. That’s why I said I’d still escort you to the wedding; but I just want us to be on the same page as to what that means.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s leg even tighter, seemingly to reassure both of them that they all have an understanding. “Yes. Alright. _Saturday_. I will pick you up at three … _Mhm_ —I will see you then. Alright. Goodbye.” A second later, and Castiel is lowering his phone, staring at Dean’s wall a long moment before finally turning bashfully to meet his boyfriend’s eyes. “That was a woman I used to date … Cathy.”

Dean clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, I gathered that. What did she want?”

Castiel sighs and rubs his hand down his face, eventually moving it around the back of his neck. _He’s nervous._ “Well … it may have slipped my mind … but I had promised her some time ago that I would escort her to her sister’s wedding. She and I were still casually seeing each other at the time of this promise, but when that ended, I suppose I assumed the promise had ended too.”

“Why didn’t you tell her that?” Dean asks, with a bit more edge than he was intending.

Castiel gulps and then sulks into the mattress. “I _did_ promise her, Dean. I don’t like to go back on my promises.”

Dean doesn’t suggest anything else, but what he _wants_ to say is “What about the promise you just made to me?” It’s immature and petty, and Castiel did tell this woman that he was currently in a relationship. It’s not like he’s lying to anyone.

“If it makes you too uncomfortable though—I can call her back. I can tell her she’ll have to find someone else to go with her.” Castiel offers this, but Dean can tell by the tension in the man’s voice, he doesn’t want to have to do that.

Dean sighs. “No—no, Cas. _It’s fine_. Just … _don’t_ sleep with her.”

It was supposed to sound like a joke, at least, that’s what Dean told himself it was—but Castiel obviously didn’t take it that way. “I wouldn’t sleep with her, Dean. I’m with you.”

Guilt washes over him like a bucket of ice water. “Sorry—yeah. I know. I’m just being stupid.”

Silence blocks in the room, and it takes Castiel a long time before he decides to pick it away. “Well, this day has just been _full_ of surprises, hasn’t it?”

Dean chuckles and finally pulls the man back into bed—he may be anxious now with all this wedding date stuff, but it’s not like it’s happening _tonight_. Dean can still enjoy having the man all to himself— _his boyfriend._ Castiel is completely _his_ right now.

And he’ll try not to let himself believe that any of that will change come Saturday afternoon.


	10. Gotta Love Susan

* * *

 

* * *

 

“This is weird. Isn’t this weird?” Sam asks, picking another peanut out of the dish and breaking it open—but he doesn’t eat the morsel inside.

Dean grunts, only barely listening as he stares across the crowded restaurant at a couple standing at the bar. The man has dark hair like Cas’s, but it’s shorter. He has blue eyes too—but they’re not nearly as pretty. The man is currently sliding his hand up and down a woman’s shapely thigh, and she is giving him a look that Dean knows all too well. The couple won’t be staying here much longer, but they might not make it out of the parking lot for a while—not until they've steamed up the windows of their car.

Dean clenches his fingers around his glass of beer. He wonders if Cathy will be giving Castiel that same look on Saturday.

“I mean—I’m happy for Bobby, don’t get me wrong, but this is like … this is _serious_.” Sam huffs a little before looking at his watch. “They’re late.”

Dean grunts again.

“This is weird” Sam says one more time, finally turning to his brother fully for confirmation.

But Dean just continues to be a distracted caveman; and soon, a peanut is thwopping against his face. “Hey!” he mutters, picking up the projectile nut and flicking it back at Sam.

“ _Hey_ yourself! I’m talking to you!”

“And I was listening!”

Sam snorts and the cocks up an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Then what did I say?”

Dean’s own brow hammers back and soon, the two are in an old fashioned duel of smugness. “You were complaining about the awkwardness of this whole thing, just like you’ve been doing ever since Bobby called to invite us to it.”

Sam’s brow lowers, and his face puckers with the deadly blow.

Dean smirks and then turns his attention back to the bar—but the couple is gone now, and Dean’s throat closes with the thought of them tangled together in one of the sedans outside.

“Whatever, dude. I’m just sayin’ … Bobby has only known this woman for _what,_ like a week or two? And now he’s already bringing her to meet his family? Don’t you think that’s rushed?”

Dean shrugs, finally giving his little brother his complete attention. “I dunno, Sam—you just spent a whole day with my new boyfriend, and I haven’t really known him for much longer.”

“That’s different though” Sam protests, a little whiny too—like he’s five years old and was just denied ice cream for dinner.

“How?”

“Because—like, I knew that you’d eventually be dating someone. It was just a matter of time.”

“Yeah, _okay_ …” Dean squints at his little brother, trying to get a read on him through all that shaggy hair. “But you also knew Bobby signed up for that dating site. I told you about it—remember? Charlie set it up for him; so you can’t be all that surprised that it actually worked.”

Sam groans before flopping back in his seat. “Yeah—I know that, but I just …”

“You just never actually pictured him being with someone?”

Sam rolls his eyes and then closes them, but he doesn’t deny a word.

Dean sighs too. “And since Bobby is like a father to us, him dating someone makes that seem tainted somehow—like someone new is trying to wedge their way in and take him away.”

With that, Sam’s eyes shoot open and he glares at Dean with obvious surprise. “Y-yeah, exactly.”

Dean chuckles. “I may be distracted with Cas and everything right now, Sammy—but I haven’t forgotten about Bobby, and this is all making me feel weird too.” Dean pauses to take a drink from his glass, but as soon as he sets it down, he stares hard at the other Winchester. “But we need to be supportive, Sam. After all that man has done for us—he kept us out of foster care. Who knows what his life would’ve been like if he didn’t do that. He could’ve had kids of his own—a wife, a little house in the suburbs, the whole nine. The least we can do is support him as he tries to get some of that time back.”

Sam’s cheeks go red and he sinks down in his chair, looking guilty and miserable—conflicted in his feelings, and it makes Dean smile. “Yeah—okay. Fine. You’re right” Sam finally concedes.

“Of course I am” Dean smirks proudly, finishing the rest of his beer in victory.

“Yeah— _whatever_.” Eventually, Sam sits himself upright once more and begins picking at the pile of peanut shells that he made on the table. “Since when did you become so empathetic and wise huh? That’s usually _my_ shtick.”

Dean shrugs. “I guess I’m growing up, Sammy.”

“About damn time.”

Bobby’s voice makes them both jump—turning away from each other to stare at the old man standing at their end of their booth. A woman is standing beside him. Her reddish blonde hair is streaked with grey, and the wrinkles around her eyes increase as she smiles down at them both. She looks kind and content—and the look somehow reminds Dean of Bobby, and that instantly puts him at ease.

“Hey, Bobby” Dean laughs, pulling himself out of the booth so he can stand up and give Bobby a hug.

Sam does the same, but his movements are jerky and reluctant.

“So, this must be Susan—nice to meet you, I’m Dean.” Dean reaches out his hand and shakes the woman’s, and her fingers are soft and warm.

“Dean! I’ve heard so much about you and your brother. Bobby is so proud of you both.”

Bobby blushes and Dean grins—finding the old man’s embarrassment adorable.

“He better be. We’re both freakin' awesome!” Dean laughs, giving his uncle and friendly pat on the belly for emphasis.

“Now you’re just bein’ an idjit” Bobby mutters, quickly swatting Dean’s hand away.

Sam clears his throat and the other three go quiet, turning to him expectantly.

But Susan is the first to speak. “And you must be Sam. I hear you’re going to be a lawyer. That is so exciting! I was a court stenographer back in the day, but that was a lifetime ago.”

Sam’s prickles seem to smooth away and his ears perk at the sound of “court”. “Oh, really? Was that here in town?”

“No, no” Susan chuckles bashfully. “I lived in California for most of my life. I came from the bay area and worked in the San Francisco courthouse for a number of years.”

“San Francisco? Wow, really? I bet you’ve heard so many interesting cases! All we get here are property disputes and petty theft claims.”

Dean and Bobby trade smug looks—knowing that the second Susan brought up her old job, Sam was on board with this whole thing.

“Well, let’s not all stand here gabbin’. Come on, sit down—I need a beer” Bobby actually interrupts.

They all chuckle and then gather back into the booth—Sam switching sides to slide in next to Dean, while Bobby and Susan cozy up right across from them.

Dean’s side was considerably more cramped with Sam there now, so Dean made sure to elbow his baby brother in the arm whenever he got the chance. Not because he didn’t really have enough room, but more because he could, and bugging Sammy was a good distraction from his own worrying thoughts about Cas.

 

“So—Dean, Bobby tells me that you’re a librarian? That must be such a wonderful job. I always loved the _feel_ of a library” Susan asks after they ordered more drinks and settled on some chips and dip for a starter.

Dean smiles and nods at the woman, noting her kind brown eyes as they shine beneath the dangling mason jar lights above their heads. “Yeah—it’s great. Honestly, it feels more like _home_ there than home does most days.”

“I’m sure—all those books, the quiet, the calm. Everyone just knows to hush up as soon as they walk in the door.”

“Exactly!” Dean laughs, because _finally_ —someone around here gets it! Sam and Bobby never quite understood Dean’s love for his job, but there is a code of ethics that comes with the library sciences, and nearly everyone is respectful of that code when they come across it. It seems like the only place on earth where that sort of compromise is even possible. “I like you, Susan. You get me. What do ya say you leave this old geezer and we run away to my library together?”

Bobby grumbles and starts to get red again, and Dean can practically feel Sam rolling his eyes beside him, but Susan’s bright smile and airy giggle makes it all worth it. “As lovely as that sounds, Dean—from what I hear, I’m not at all your type.”

Dean is the red one now, and he hunches up his shoulders before he nods. “True—but if you grow a beard, I may just be able to compromise.”

He and Susan both share a laugh at that, and Bobby groans with embarrassment. “Will ya stop flirtin’ with my gal, Dean? It took me long enough to do that myself. I don’t need you comin’ in here and makin’ it seem all easy.”

Dean tosses Bobby a wink and then leans back in his seat, lifting up his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright—sorry, Bobby. As much as I hate to give in, you did find her first.”

“ _And_ he did very well with his own flirting— it may have been more mumbled than I’m used to, but I found it all very sweet” Susan hums, leaning into Bobby some, causing the man’s skin to heat up so much, Dean is worried he might spontaneously combust.

“Aw—jeez, stop it, Suz … not in front of my boys.”

Susan beams at him. “You are just too cute— _your boys._ I love it!” But then she leans away, knowing enough to give Bobby some breathing room, and Dean likes her all the more for it.  “So, Dean—” Susan continues after a beat. “Bobby tells me that you’re seeing someone as well. What’s his name? Is it serious?”

Dean’s insides light up as he thinks about Castiel— _his boyfriend_ , and part of him is so excited to talk to someone new about the man that he has to center himself to keep from squealing. “Yeah! His name is Cas—Castiel. He’s … well, he’s my boyfriend. We just made it official the other day.” Dean is grinning ear to ear now, and Susan matches him as she leans in to listen. “He’s great—he’s cute and funny, and he’s smart.”

“Plus he’s loaded” Sam jumps in with a laugh, and Bobby chuckles and smirks at him.

But Dean shoots Sam a look that could split him in half. “ _Yes—_ that’s true; but that’s _not_ why I like him.”

“Of course not. From what Bobby has told me about you, you don’t care about such superficial things” Susan reassures, and Dean nods sternly. “ _But_ —dating a man who is well off and stable is certainly not a bad thing either.”

Dean leans back a bit, not really thinking about it until now— _but it’s true_. He doesn’t have to worry about Castiel in the way he has had to worry about Sam or Bobby, or anyone else in his life. Not that Sam and Bobby are irresponsible, quite the contrary—but law school is expensive and Bobby is always struggling to make ends meet. Without that kind of worry though, he and Cas can just be free to enjoy each other’s company, and that really is something to be thankful for. Dean nods. “Yeah—very true.”

“So …” Susan begins again. “What else? Tell me more.”

“Well—he has these eyes. They’re so damn blue! I mean, seriously— he—”

“Okay, alright … c’mon now. These boys are here to get to know _you._ Plus, if I have to hear Dean swoon about that guy’s eyes one more damn time, I’ll lose my appetite.”

Sam laughs and raises his glass to Bobby’s little outburst. “Here, here! Besides—Dean is just distracting himself anyway.”

Dean’s face blanks a moment as he slowly rounds to glare at his brother.

Sam glances back at him and shrugs. “What? _You are!_ ”

Dean then notes the two empty beer mugs beside Sam, and the third one in his hand—his brother is tipsy, and thus, a bit of an asshole.

“Cas is going on a date with his ex tomorrow and you’re freakin’ out!”

A rough kick lands on Sam’s shin and he winces before flipping Dean off.

“What?” Susan asks, sounding truly shocked by this bit of information.

“It’s not a date!” Dean demands a moment later, finally turning away from his brother—intent on ignoring him from here on out. “Cas had promised his ex, _Cathy_ —a long time ago—way before he met me, that he’d take her to her sister’s wedding. He kinda forgot about it until she called him the other day, but he’s a man of his word, so he’s honoring his promise.”

“But … he told her about _you_ , right?” Susan asks, and Dean nods quickly—stopping after a beat when he realizes that Susan didn’t flinch at all when Dean said Cas’s ex was a _woman_. When Bobby first heard that Cas was bi, it took Dean an hour to explain it to the man … and he’s still considering putting together a PowerPoint presentation just to really hammer it home.

_He likes Susan._

“Yeah, of course—that’s the first thing he told her when she called him the other night. He made it clear that they’re just going as friends, nothing more.”

Susan bobs her head as she stares down at the table, breathing out a soft sigh after everyone else goes quiet. “Well—that’s good; but I can understand why you’d be worried. Seeing someone you care about alongside someone they used to be close to is never easy. My ex-husband was friends with a lot of his exes. He always told me it was all innocent and I shouldn’t worry when they were alone together.”

Dean swallows thickly. “Was it? Was it all innocent?”

Susan sinks some. “Um … well, I’m sure _some_ of those friendships were.”

Dean is sinking now too. _“Fuck.”_

“Dean! Watch your mouth! There’s a lady present!”

Susan chuckles before patting Bobby on the arm. “It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m nearly sixty five years old—I’ve heard the F-word before.”

Bobby grumbles _okay_ but he still gives Dean a disapproving look, and Dean still mouths _I’m sorry_ , which Susan immediately dismisses.

“Dean” the woman finally goes on, seeming intent on making him feel better about all this. “Don’t compare what I just said to your situation—the two sound very different from where I’m sitting. The fact of the matter is, my ex-husband gave me many, many signs that I shouldn’t trust him, but I chose to ignore them all.  Now, unless Castiel has given _you_ some signs too, I think you should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Dean sighs as he rubs the condensation off the side of his beer glass, knowing that she’s right. “Yeah—I know. Cas hasn’t done anything to make me doubt him. But—I dunno, I just … I just feel like I can’t compete.”

“Why? Because she's a woman?”

Dean’s cheeks warm as he hangs his head—a little shocked with how intuitive Susan is.

But her small laugh makes him look up again. “Dean— _as a woman_ , let me just reassure you that you have nothing to worry about. If this man even has an ounce of sense, he would be mad to choose anyone else over you, especially someone who has already failed to make it work with him. You are sweet and funny, and extremely handsome.”

Dean immediately perks up with the praise, and then smiles smugly at both his brother and his uncle. “Hear that? I’m _extremely handsome._ ”

The other two men both groan and that makes Dean grin even more.

“Yes—you are, so unless your boyfriend is a giant idiot, which it doesn’t sound like he is or else you wouldn’t be dating him, then I think that he’s just trying to keep a promise that he made. That _is_ honorable, just like you said before. You should admire him for that.”

“Yeah—yeah, I know. You’re totally right. I’m just being dumb.”

“But—” Susan chirps quickly, and the other three sets of eyes all dart to her, “if you were to _stop by_ that wedding, just to check in and make sure that that woman wasn’t getting handsy with your man, I don’t think I could blame you for it.”

 _Dean really, really likes Susan now_. “You know, that's not a bad idea!”

Sam’s flustered _tisks_ are soon filling up the booth. “Wait—what? No! Dean, you can’t be serious!”

Soon, Bobby is chiming in too. “Yeah—that don’t sound like a good idea to me, kid … why would you put that in the boy’s head?” he’s asking Susan a second later.

Susan just shrugs, seeming not at all remorseful for what she had suggested.

Sam huffs and then turns fully to Dean in the booth, making the small space feel even tighter. “Seriously, Dean. Don’t crash that wedding—Cas said that he was taking this woman there as a friend, and you should trust him.”

“He _can_ trust Cas, I’m sure—but that doesn’t mean he can trust the woman— _Cathy_? Was that her name?”

Dean nods and grins wildly, thrilled with his new found comrade in all this.

Susan snorts. “Cathy sounds like a hussy.”

“I know, right?” Dean yelps with glee.

“No! No, she doesn’t! Jeez—Dean, _look_ , if you go to this wedding and if Cas _sees_ you there spying on him, it could really mess things up with you two.”

“And Cathy’s hand down Cas’s pants could mess things up with them as well” Susan adds on, sounding like opposing council in the case of Dean Winchester v. The Horrors of Exes Past.

Dean gestures approvingly at her, serving up her logic like a second appetizer.

“Suz… I really don’t think you should be encouraging him. He’s done crap like this before and it hasn’t turned out all that good.”

“Exactly! Remember when you first found out about Cas? You stalked the guy and then nearly punched him in the face!”

“Well, if that’s the case—then Cas obviously wasn’t deterred by it if they’re dating now.”

Dean’s grin threatens to split his head in two, thinking that he downright _loves_ this woman now, and if Bobby doesn’t marry her, he just might. “Thank you! Thank you, Susan! You’re the only one who seems to understand this whole thing!”

“Well, Dean—I know how it feels to be unsure, and the only way to find certainty is to see it with your own two eyes. Yes, Cas might not appreciate you spying on him, but it sounds like he’s aware of that side of you, so he shouldn’t be too surprised.”

“Then it’s settled!” Dean booms, smacking the table and sending some of the peanuts and chips skittering from their bowls. “I’m going to go to that wedding!”

“Good for you!” Susan sings,

“No! _Not_ good for you! Dean—don’t be stupid!” Sam urges, but Dean is still swimming with the excitement of making up his mind.

“It’s no use, Sammy—by this time tomorrow, I’ll be crashing a wedding!”

***

The rest of the night wasn’t nearly as climactic—once Sam and Bobby gave up on trying to change Dean’s mind, they moved on to much more normal subjects.

They learned that Susan has a daughter that lives in Washington and works as a nurse. She is bi herself (explaining why Susan wasn’t shocked about Cas's sexuality) and is currently dating a woman that lives in the same apartment building as her. Susan doesn’t think they’re right for each other though; but that’s only because the woman doesn’t cut out much time for her daughter. “She treats her like an afterthought, and my baby should be one of the _first_ things on her mind.”

That momentarily brought them back to Dean and Cas—and how Susan hoped her daughter would find someone as devoted to the relationship as Dean is to his.

And once again, Dean thought about how much he liked the woman—and he made sure to tell Bobby that before they all parted ways at the end of the night.

Bobby _did_ seem really happy with his newfound relationship, and Dean couldn’t be happier because of it. And he can’t wait to tell Charlie all about their unique little dinner on Monday at work. She was hounding him for details all day, but he had none to give. Bobby didn't tell him much about his mystery girlfriend, other than her name and that she was "real pretty— too pretty for me." Charlie promised to knock some sense into the old man later for not having confidence in himself.

Honestly _, Dean would_ text her now, but he knows that telling Charlie about the dinner would inevitably lead to his plans to crash the wedding, and she just might be the only person in the world who could actually talk him out of it—and he's still too excited about it all to risk that.

 

He’s so excited in fact, that when he’s finally back home and settled in bed—he can’t seem to find the ability to sleep.

Hours pass with him staring up at the ceiling in the dark, imagining all the possible scenarios for how tomorrow will play out.

They first start out realistic enough. He’ll stop by—see Cas and Cathy sitting a good distance from one another at the reception table, both stiff and awkward, and both desperately wanting it all to be over. Dean smiles with that possibility, hoping that the most likely case, will be the actual one.

But as the night deepens, so do his unsure thoughts— _him_ , rolling up just as the dancing begins. And then a slow song comes on, and Cathy pulls Cas reluctantly to the dance floor.

The man will lean away at first, but Cathy will be too persuasive, and soon—Cas will have is hands around her waist, and she will be dipping in. Her soft skin and long silky hair will be too much to resist, and Cas will kiss her—and then, everything that he has with Dean will be over.

“No” he whispers to himself, stomach roiling on the evil thoughts. “Cas wouldn’t do that.”

He trusts those words—Cas _wouldn’t_ do that, but Cathy could still very well try to make him, and that alone is enough to turn Dean’s breathing, shallow.

He wants to go back.

He wants to go back to the other night when they were both in this bed, holding onto to each other—naked skin pressed upon naked skin. Promises and compliments filling the sheets and fluffing the pillows. Dean should have never let Cas go that night.

Maybe if he hadn’t, the man would still be here in his arms, and not on his way to the arms of another.

***

His ringing phone wakes him up—and Dean groans, feeling like he just had finally fallen asleep. He probably had in all honesty. He knows that he spent most of the night in a cold sweat over all the ways Cathy could be plotting to steal his man.

“ _What?_ ” he grumbles when he’s finally able to find his phone on the nightstand.

“Good morning to you too, Dean.” Cas’s voice is raspy, but awake—and Dean envies the sound. “I wanted to call and see how last night went.”

Dean sighs and then pulls himself upright a little, trying to ignore how tired he still feels. “It went really well—” he stops to yawn and then continues. “I really liked Bobby’s girlfriend. She’s a super nice lady.”

“Oh good! I’m really glad to hear that” and the warmth in his tone warms Dean to his toes, knowing that Castiel _is_ truly glad. If Dean is happy, _he is happy_.

“Yeah—I still need to plan a dinner for you and Bobby to meet, though. He shouldn't have beat me to the punch.”

There’s a silent moment before Castiel finally responds, more quietly than he was before. “I would like that very much.”

Dean smiles. “Good—so _uh,_ when are you heading out for the wedding?”

“At noon. I told Cathy I would pick her up at twelve thirty so we could be at the ranch by one.”

“The ranch?”

“Oh—yes, the wedding will be held at Thompson Ranch.”

Dean nods against the phone, wondering why he even had to ask. There were only two places around here that people got hitched—the old church on main street, or out on Thompson Ranch. If people didn’t get married at either one, then they were usually traveling out of town—something that Dean was worried about up until now. His plan to check in on Cathy and Cas would be thwarted if her sister decided to get married somewhere far away. “Gotcha.  So what time does the ceremony start?”

“At three I believe, although—it doesn’t truly matter for me, as long as Cathy is there on time.”

“She’s in the wedding?”

“Well, it _is_ her sister’s big day, Dean.”

Dean smiles. “Right, right.” That makes him feel better though, knowing that there will be a big chunk of the afternoon where Cathy will be busy—from the ceremony to the photos, to speeches and toasts, she may not get many chances to get Cas all to herself.

“Are you alright, Dean—I mean, with all of this? I know that you’re not thrilled with the idea of me escorting an ex.”

Dean huffs, but tries to compose his tone—after all, he’s giving Cas the benefit of the doubt, _right?_ “Yeah—yeah, it’s fine. I mean, yeah, you’re right … I’m not thrilled with it, but, I understand that you’re just trying to keep your promise.”

“Good” Castiel says, and Dean can almost see the man’s smile through the phone. “Well, I should probably start getting ready. There are a few errands I need to run before I pick Cathy up.”

Dean sighs but then nods again. “Yeah, alright. Well … have fun.”

“I’ll try—but I’d much rather be having fun with _you_.”

The grin that cuts across Dean’s face is instant. “Same here, Cas … same here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know ... I haven't updated this fic for months! But, in my defense, life got in the way. It's still the way, but I needed to write so I wouldn't go crazy. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Hopefully I can get the much-anticipated wedding chapter posted in the next week or so.
> 
> Hopefully you all haven't abandoned this fic by now. Thank you for reading if decided to stick around!


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